


The Boy Who Lived Next Door

by RuArcher (Coriesocks)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Art, Bacon, Coffee, Diagon Alley, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Music, Past Relationship(s), Realisation of feelings, Reunions, Then lovers, apple turnovers, art dealer Draco Malfoy, bacon sandwiches, draco being a sassy knobhead, harry being super fit, no sleeves no masters, refusal of feelings, sentient portrait, shopkeeper Harry Potter, tiny dog, to enemies again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-07-31 09:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/RuArcher
Summary: The last time Draco Malfoy saw Harry Potter, Draco was bent over a desk in an empty classroom, begging for more. Right before Harry walked out of his life for good. Which was fine. It’d been fifteen years and Draco was obviously over him, thank you very much. He had a nice life and a successful art gallery and no space for noisy neighbours (having sex) or tiny dogs (slobbering) or Harry’s unreasonably muscular arms (wow, where did they come from). If only Harry would just, like, leave him alone... or something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigersilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/gifts).

> Written for the Trope "Reunions" for the 2019 H/D Tropes Exchange Fest"
> 
> Tigersilver, I couldn’t have asked for a better recipient because as I read your sign up, it was like reading a list of my own likes and dislikes. I really hope you enjoy what I’ve done with this trope and I can’t wait to hear what you think!  
Thank you so much to my small army of alphas and betas - you know who you are. I honestly would have been completely screwed without your help, encouragement, and smut guidance, and I love you all SO MUCH.  
And mods, thanks for hosting this fest! It’s been a blast.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

The little bell above the door tinkled cheerfully as Draco stepped out of his gallery and into the watery early morning light. He took a deep breath and a satisfied smile tickled at the corners of his lips as he surveyed the street. At this hour, the air felt bitterly cold, but the clear sky promised a warmer day ahead. It was still April though, so he didn’t hold out too much hope. It was early enough that Diagon Alley was blissfully quiet, most shop owners still stumbling around inside their premises and preparing for the day ahead. Not Draco though. He had a routine. He loved Diagon Alley at this time of day, before the street filled with shoppers, cluttering up the cobbles and making it a chore to go anywhere. This early though, everything was still and quiet, and Draco was able to fully appreciate the architecture, the history. He could stroll to his favourite cafe without having to weave past window shoppers or pause to let an old witch with too many bags cross his path. 

_Carol’s_ was one of the businesses that had set up on Diagon Alley as the dust settled after the war. It had started as little more than a tea urn set up on a rickety bench at the corner of Diagon Alley and Knight Road, supplying a steady stream of hot beverages to the many people who’d come together to help rebuild the heart of Britain’s magical community. Soon after, Carol and Ross secured a premises of their own and rapidly became a Diagon Alley staple. 

Draco pushed the door open and delight danced down his spine as the warm, coffee-and-bacon-infused air of the cafe engulfed him like the embrace of an old friend welcoming him home.

“Morning, Draco,” Carol said from her usual position at the counter behind the display of freshly baked cakes. Ross handled the cooking during the day, but the cakes and biscuits were Carol’s domain. Draco often wondered how she found the time to sleep since she must be up baking for most of the night. She nodded at the mug sitting in wait on the counter. “I added a dash of amaretto syrup to your brew today so let me know what you think. What can I fix you for breakfast?”

Draco had wrapped his cold hands around the smooth, hot surface of the large mug before she’d stopped talking. He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply and _yes,_ there was the distinct almondy-sweet aroma of amaretto. He’d long since given up control of his beverage choice to Carol, and she rewarded this trust by ensuring his coffee was always waiting for him when he arrived, no matter what time that was. Once, he’d tried to catch her out by arriving at a different time each morning, but she’d been ready for him no matter whether he showed up at six a.m. on the dot or seven forty. He still hadn’t worked out how she did it (there was never a hint of preservation charm—they altered the subtle notes of the coffee—so he could only assume she had somehow attached a tracking charm to him). As long as he got hot, fresh coffee every morning, he wasn’t going to complain. She was almost always spot-on with her coffee choice too; even her more experimental choices.

He took a sip before answering, savouring the delicate, earthy tones of the drink as it washed across his tongue and warmed him from the inside out. Carol didn’t press him, smiling patiently as she rinsed her hands in the small sink and then dried them on the corner of her apron.

Draco stifled a shudder and tried not to think about the last time the apron was washed.

“I think…” He paused, mulling over his options a few moments longer. Another benefit of being up and about so early was that it gave him the luxury of taking his time with important breakfast-related decisions. There were no wizards huffing impatiently behind him as they waited for their caffeine fix; no small, bored children pawing at his robes with sticky fingers; no teenagers rolling their eyes at him as they tapped away on their little Muggle devices. “Toasted bacon and egg sandwich today, Carol, please.” 

“No problem, dear.” She turned and yelled the order through the hatch to Ross. Looking back at Draco, she smiled knowingly. “Tough night?” she asked, ringing up his order on the ancient till.

He huffed out a breathy laugh, unsurprised that she was so aware of his eating habits. It was true, bacon sandwiches were normally reserved for when he was feeling a little… delicate after a heavy night. “Not too bad, but I was a little later to bed than I intended.”

She shook her head fondly and muttered ‘youngsters today’ under her breath as she grabbed the sandwich from Ross. It was sliced diagonally, perfectly toasted, a little bit of grease and egg yolk dripping out onto the plate. Draco didn’t have the heart to dispel the illusion she had of him that he was a man about town. In truth, he’d gotten caught up reading the latest Rainbow Rowell book and before he knew it, the clock was chiming two a.m. and his bottle of red was empty. Carol didn’t need to know that.

“Thank you, Carol.” He handed over a Galleon, as usual, and waved away his change, as usual, then took his sandwich and coffee with a grateful smile and a promise to take better care of himself.

It wasn’t particularly busy in the cafe at this hour, but a fair few tables were already occupied; people who, like Draco, were in no particular rush to get anywhere and had time to enjoy their breakfast. The low murmur of half-awake conversation mingled with the hiss of the coffee machine—a monstrous-looking Muggle contraption, all sleek chrome and buttons—and the clangs and clatters filtering through from the kitchen to provide a soothing soundtrack to his morning. Draco stepped around a table where a witch was hunched over a crossword, muttering furiously to herself, and squeezed through the narrow gap left between two chairs thanks to the two wizards on neighbouring tables thinking they could spread out with no care for any other patrons. He secured himself a small table by the window—not his favourite spot since it caught the draught every time the door opened, but it was the best of a mediocre bunch—and settled down to enjoy his self-indulgent breakfast. 

While he stared out of the window, chewing on his sandwich, Diagon Alley slowly woke up. Shop-keepers rolled up their shutters and dragged stock and advertising boards onto the street to entice people to buy their wares. Bleary-eyed workers emerged, stumbling out of the Leaky Cauldron, heading towards their daily prisons. Edgar, responsible for keeping the streets clean, lazily renewed the charm on the broom as he leant against the wall opposite Carol’s, nursing a mug of tea in a gnarled hand. He casually saluted Draco when he noticed him, his lips spreading open in a broad grin to reveal his few remaining teeth, and Draco waved politely back before pulling his shrunken paperback out of a pocket and resizing it. 

The bright, sky blue cover drew an easy smile forth from his lips, and he riffled through the pages to find where he’d left off the night before, a little buzz of excitement fizzing inside him at the thought of dragging his breakfast out a while longer. One benefit of being his own boss, and being established with a hard-won reputation, was being able to keep whatever hours he wanted. At this point, he didn’t _need_ the custom he got from walk-ins, most of his deals being made over owl or through privately arranged appointments, so he could afford to take an extra ten or fifteen minutes to enjoy his coffee and find out what was going to happen with Simon and Baz.

He leant back and crossed one leg neatly over the other, holding the book open in front of him while he sipped his coffee. The sounds of the cafe faded into the background and he sighed, sinking into the world spun through the pages. But then something caught his attention—the name of his gallery, spoken in a hissed conversation between the two witches two tables over. They both whipped their heads round to look at him, so Draco affected his politest smile and dropped his eyes back to his book, although he was no longer reading it. He had worked hard to build up Eltanin from a small backroom owl-order art shop, to the prestigious, centrally-located gallery it now was. If people were gossiping about his shop, his heart and soul, he needed to know exactly what was being said. Most had long forgiven his teenage transgressions, and he was now widely respected for his business acumen, but there was still a minority that muttered in shadows about the unfairness of his success, no matter how hard he’d worked to claw his way up.

Carefully, he slipped a finger into the pages of his book to mark his place and reached for his wand under the pretence of scratching his leg. With his fingers wrapped around the smooth length of hawthorn, he muttered a spell he’d perfected through years of eavesdropping and amplified his hearing. He winced as he was suddenly assaulted by a barrage of cafe noise, but with focus, he was able to pick out the voices of the witches.

“Really? Mr Malfoy tried to buy it?”

“Yes, but apparently it had already been bought up. Some celebrity or other. That’s why everything’s been so hush-hush. I heard he was rather cross.”

So they were discussing the empty shop next to his. It had been sitting there for months, empty. An eyesore on an otherwise rather picturesque shopping arcade. He’d only offered to buy it to stop it getting squatted in or something equally as distasteful. He couldn’t have something like that pulling down the reputation and appearance of his own shop. And he hadn’t been _cross_, just a little miffed.

“Of course, everyone knows he wants to expand. Remember when he bought up Alf’s on the other side? Such a shame.”

Draco snorted and covered it up with a cough. Alf had all but begged him to buy his shop—it had been left to him by his brother and he’d never been comfortable owning it. Now he was sunning himself on some tropical beach somewhere, funded by the generous sum Draco had paid for his ramshackle property.

“Alf was an idiot though. Not a lick of sense in him, thinking he could sell whatever knick-knacks he found lying around. It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did.”

“But it was a traditional wizarding shop. Now we got all those paintings where nothing moves, on display for all to see. It’s unnatural.”

Draco rolled his eyes. It had been something of a scandal when he’d first started selling Muggle paintings and sculptures alongside wizarding works, but now they were some of his most popular pieces, and to be honest, he actually preferred them now. Life was much simpler when the wall decoration didn’t answer back. 

Shaking his head, he moved to cancel the eavesdropping charm, tired of hearing old gossip and eager to spend a few more minutes with his book when: “I saw them carrying in boxes last night when I was out walking Barkley so I imagine we’ll find out soon enough who the mystery owner is and what sort of thing they’ll be selling. I hope it’s a smellies shop.”

“Ooh yes, you can’t beat some nice smellies. My Alice always buys the nicest gift sets for me—from a Muggle shop, can you believe it?—it would be lovely to have something like that on Diagon Alley.”

Draco cancelled the charm and snapped his book shut—he thought he’d heard a few bumps and knocks last night so maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss it as nothing. If there was finally something happening to that eyesore of a shop then he wanted to be there to witness it. They were to be neighbours, after all. It was bad enough whoever it was had let the shop sit there, dormant, for months, and not a single one of the other shopkeepers knew a thing about what was going on with it, but now this mystery shop owner was moving in under cover of darkness? This was surely a bad sign.

*

Everything was quiet when he got back to his gallery. The name, Eltanin, picked out in a golden looping script over the large picture window, gleamed in the early morning light and Draco felt a familiar surge of pride that the premises was _his_. There had been mutterings that it looked too modern when he first renovated the space, cries that his window was too large, that it would shatter, and won’t somebody please think of the kiddies? But he’d ignored them all and pushed ahead anyway. He needed the space to feel light and airy, and he couldn’t accomplish that with old-fashioned leaded windows, so he’d taken inspiration from the Muggles and used something called ‘double glazing’ (reinforced with magic, of course), along with installing fake light-wells in the ceiling to flood the space with natural light.

The shop next door looked as lifeless as always, with no sign of any movement. He even attempted to peer through the window, but the interior of the glass was smeared with grime and obscured with peeling posters. He laughed under his breath as he unlocked the door to his gallery and activated the light wells with a flick of his wand. It was ridiculous to take the gossip of two old harridans as fact, and he should know better than to listen to idle chatter by now. He actually felt a little silly that he’d so quickly allowed himself to get taken in. Thank Salazar he’d not over-reacted.

“Late start today, my boy.”

“Oh, sod off, Heph,” Draco grumbled, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a hook next to the mouthy portrait of his father’s great-granduncle. 

“Well I never,” Hephaestus said, his tone radiating disappointment. “It seems you left your manners in the same place that you abandoned your punctuality.”

“Need I remind you how easily you could be repositioned in a less favourable area of the gallery?”

Great Uncle Hephaestus scoffed and settled back onto his plush wingback chair, but didn’t offer any further comment. He was an amusing man, in small doses, but Draco often found his constant commentary both exhausting and irritating. If he hadn’t been so pivotal in helping to make several large sales over the years, then Draco might have relegated him to the storeroom at the back. Or perhaps the loo… although, on second thought, he dreaded what observations the old man might spout in that position. 

Sighing, he grabbed a stack of paperwork from a hidden drawer beneath the counter and got started on one of the more boring administrative aspects of his job; checking through invoices, owling clients and dealers, and following up on some of the mail he’d received over the weekend. As the morning progressed, he got a few walk-ins, people who wanted to browse the art rather than purchase anything—fair enough, but he made sure to draw their attention to the reproduction prints he kept towards the back, along with the tea towels, stationery sets, and other assorted tat featuring designs based on popular paintings—made several Floo calls, and wrote letters to some of his Muggle contacts ready for sending next time he popped into Muggle London.

It was an ordinary Monday, and by the time his stomach began to let him know lunchtime was approaching, he’d all but put the gossip he’d overhead at the cafe out of his mind. Until, that was, he heard a muffled thud. 

Draco slowly lowered the latest listings catalogue from Sotheby’s and cocked his head. He wasn’t sure he’d heard anything out of the ordinary, and if he had, it had probably been something outside. People were always knocking over the broom displays outside of Quality Quidditch Supplies, or perhaps someone—

A loud crash, like something solid and heavy thudding down a flight of stairs instantly pulled Draco’s attention to the adjoining wall between him and the quite obviously no-longer-empty shop next door. He could make out several muffled voices too. His fingers curled involuntarily around the catalogue, crumpling the edges, as there was another crash-thud from next door followed by a muffled shout. 

“Sounds like a herd of bloody Hippogriffs has taken up residence next door,” Hephaestus said.

“Yes, quite,” Draco muttered, smoothing out the catalogue on his desk and picking up a quill to note down the interesting lots. He refused to rush around there like an excitable teen chasing after a celebrity crush, even though his feet itched to march over there and find out exactly what was going on. 

“Well? Are you going to tell them to keep it down?”

“I’m giving them a chance to apologise for the disturbance. It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Give them an inch…”

“And they’ll take a mile, yes, yes. Then, with any luck, they’ll hang themselves with the excess.”

Draco managed to work through the incessant banging and clattering for half an hour even though each thud, thump, and muffled shout lanced straight through his skull. He’d already gone through two quills thanks to stabbing down too hard on the paper and snapping the nib. But it wasn’t just the noise coming through the wall that was a problem, he also had to put up with a constant stream of comments from Great Uncle Hephaestus, and the murmur from a growing crowd of nosey passersby, all desperate to get a peek at the new arrival. Honestly, anyone would think they’d never seen a shop renovation before.

When an ear-piercing whine started up, Draco had had enough. He slammed his quill down on the desk and near pulled the door off its hinges in his haste to get out, the cheerful tinkle of the bell above it mocking him even as the handle hit the wall with a resounding crack. Silence fell over the people crowding around the neighbouring shop and they turned as one to glare at Draco as if he’d been the one creating all the noise that morning.

“Don’t you people have lives to be getting on with?” he muttered as he elbowed through the nosey crowd.

The door was still locked, but he rattled the handle several times anyway, just to make sure. It wouldn’t budge though, so he hammered loudly on it in an attempt to be heard. He couldn’t even begin to fathom what was going on in there, but it currently sounded like something was being murdered.

“I demand to be let in so I can speak to whomever is responsible for the disruption to my day!” Draco shouted when his first round of knocking hadn’t encouraged anyone to open the door. 

He raised his fist to hammer again, but the door swung open abruptly before his knuckles could make contact with the flaky painted surface.

“George?” Draco spluttered. “What—”

“I wondered how long it’d be before we saw your chirpy face, Draco,” George said, cutting him off. “Well? Don’t just stand there, come in!” He grabbed Draco by the sleeve and yanked him into the murky interior of the shop so fast he almost lost his footing.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Draco shook out his sleeve and smoothed down his clothes before taking his first proper look around. 

It wasn’t actually as murky as he’d first thought. There were a few lamps hanging from the ceiling, but a surprising amount of sunlight filtered in through the very top of the front window, managing to squeeze its way past the grime and posters. From what Draco remembered about the previous layout of the shop, it had been overladen shelves and haphazardly stacked boxes. There had been barely any floor space left, making manoeuvring to the till a logistical nightmare. But now, all of the clutter had been cleared out, and there were new wooden panels of various lengths and sizes leaning against one wall. The air smelled like sawdust and varnish, with a pervasive overlay of musky perspiration that clung to the back of Draco’s throat and threatened to make his eyes water.

He coughed and held a hand up to his nose to try and block out the odour, then turned his attention to the other person in the room. They were halfway up a ladder with a white mask obscuring half of their face and a Muggle tool in their hands—that would explain the dying Erumpent sounds then.

The man lifted the mask off his face and it was only Draco’s exceptional breeding that stopped his jaw from dropping open because:

_“Neville?”_

He’d been at Neville and Blaise’s fashionable Greenwich penthouse for dinner just the other night and the sneaky bastard had mentioned nothing about this. The pair of them had sat there and let him complain about the unfairness of having an empty shop beside his when he had both the desire and the Galleons to purchase it, and all that time…

“Er… Hi, Draco, sorry but… I… sworn to secrecy, you know how it is.” Neville shrugged and smiled apologetically.

Blaise would be receiving a sharply worded owl this afternoon, that was for certain. Because there was no doubt in Draco’s mind that his wily best friend was just as in the know about this as Neville. And George! They’d had drinks together on Thursday after the monthly Alliance of Shopkeepers of Diagon Alley meeting and he’d clearly outright lied when he and Draco had speculated about the identity of the mystery owner.

This would teach Draco for befriending Gryffindors. Insufferable, lying twats, the lot of them.

“Sorry about the noise,” George offered, not looking remotely sorry. 

“Yes, well. Bloody well keep it down. Some of us are trying to run a respectable business. Which, no doubt, will be increasingly difficult with whatever expansion of your joke shop you’re inflicting upon this end of the street.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at George to cover up how wrong-footed he felt by being kept in the dark by people he—on his more generous days—considered friends. He couldn’t even think of a viable reason they’d keep it from him and it hurt. 

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about Wheezes bringing any joy to your lifeless gallery, Draco. I’m just here helping out a friend.”

Much to Draco’s continued irritation and sense of betrayal, George and Neville exchanged a look. It was one of those looks that spoke volumes, but only if you were in on it, which Draco decidedly wasn’t. He thought he’d long moved past people whispering about him behind his back, but evidently not. He opened his mouth, a scathing retort poised and ready to leap from his tongue when a small bushy-haired boy dashed out from a room at the back.

“Hugo! Get back here! We will Floo straight— Oh! Hey, Malfoy.” Ron skidded to a halt in the middle of the room and shared a weighty look with Neville and George as the five-year-old menace hid behind his uncle’s leg, giggling breathlessly.

Draco’s anger threatened to bubble over, and it was only the presence of Hugo that stopped him. “Will someone _please_—”

“Ron? Is Hugo out there with you?” The shout from the back room cut Draco off before he could go any further, his mouth frozen in a grimace, his stomach lurching, his heart pounding into overdrive. It sounded a lot like a voice he’d not heard in years, a voice he’d tried to block from his memory and hoped he’d never have to hear again…

His traitorous mind thrust image after image at him; times when he’d heard that same voice hushed and secretive in a darkened room, lips brushing his ear while hands wandered. A voice low and filled with promise, gravelly tones that reverberated through Draco’s taut body while they both chased an inevitable end… 

He shuddered, shoved the unwanted imagery aside. It couldn’t _really_ be his voice. It _couldn’t._ No one had seen or heard from _him_ for years. Had they? There was no way he’d show up out of the blue. Draco would have heard about it… _Someone would have told him._

He swallowed thickly, suddenly aware of three pairs of eyes studying him intently (four including Hugo, although he seemed more focused on the finger up his nose).

“Oh bloody hell. You didn’t tell him, did you?” Ron said, clearly exasperated, his eyes darting between George and Neville. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Neville shrugged, fiddling with the elastic cord of the mask he’d pulled off his face. He looked anxious, shifty. But George… George looked like the Kneazle who’d got the cream, a delighted grin spreading slowly across his face. “And miss out on what promises to be a stunningly awkward reunion? Not a chance!” 

Draco’s chest tightened. _Evil._ That’s what he was. An evil, manipulative, joke of a businessman whose brain had clearly been addled by too much sampling of his own products and Draco kicked himself for ever thinking George Weasley was ‘not too bad’. 

“What’s going on?” he ground out.

“Ron? Are you there? Please don’t tell me I’ve lost your son. Hermione will have my boll—” 

Harry Potter strode into the room, one hand clutched to his head while the other held a sledgehammer. He was wearing a sleeveless faded black t-shirt that clung to his damp chest, revealing leanly-muscled arms glistening with sweat. His hair, longer than Draco had seen before, was gathered at the top of his head in a ridiculous knot while the loose tendrils curled behind his ears and tickled the top of his collar. He slowly lowered the hand from his head and stared at Draco, those familiar green eyes wide with shock behind unfamiliar and unexpectedly stylish plastic-framed glasses.

“—ocks,” Harry finished weakly. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, the rasp of stubble clearly audible. 

Draco couldn’t move, could barely even breathe. It was like the shop itself was holding its breath.

Harry. 

Draco hadn’t spoken to him since that night after their exams, when Harry had just walked away and left him shattered into a thousand pieces. It was over fifteen years ago now, and yet all the pain, the rage, the intense frustration and hopelessness that had dulled with the passage of time, came flooding back, suddenly as fresh in his heart as when he was eighteen and believed he’d never find joy again.

*

George clapped his hands, a whip-crack in the heavy silence of the shop, then rubbed them together gleefully. “Draco, meet your new neighbour. Harry, likewise. Enjoy!” He hoisted Hugo onto his shoulders and withdrew from the room, Neville close on his heels. Ron hung around for a moment, chewing on a nail as he looked between Harry and Draco before muttering under his breath and leaving too.

As the silence between them thickened to suffocating levels, Draco studied Harry, careful to keep his glare cold. He hadn’t seen the man in years so of course he was going to look—pure curiosity, obviously—but he didn’t want Harry misunderstanding and assuming Draco thought he looked good, because he absolutely did not, all sweaty and dirty and unreasonably muscular. He definitely looked older—understandable since it had been quite a few years—but those years had been unfairly kind to him. There was a healthy glow to his skin, obvious even in the dim light of the shop, that spoke of a lot of time spent outdoors. A lean physique that showed no signs of having softened with age; if anything, he looked even fitter than he did before. He had tattoos too, Draco could see something curling around Harry’s left arm and the tip of something else just visible beneath the neck of his t-shirt. There was nothing Draco could see in his posture of the awkward boy he had known back at school. This Harry held himself confidently, and he suffered Draco’s scrutiny with a defiant glint in his eye, as if challenging Draco to say something. It lit something deep within him, something he’d long forgotten, and he would have loved to have come out with a scathing remark or witty comment, but he’d temporarily lost all ability to put words together in a coherent fashion. 

Harry was back. And damn him to Hades, he looked good. _Bollocks._

The silence dragged on and Draco could feel sweat start to prickle unpleasantly beneath his shirt. He fought the urge to shudder at the sensation, remaining rigid, his face carefully blank, refusing to appear anything other than indifferent at Harry’s unwelcome appearance. Inside was something else. What the _fuck_ was Harry doing here? Didn’t anyone think this was something he might want to know? How long had they all been talking and laughing behind his back? 

Harry shifted, put the hammer gently down on an unopened box and wiped his hands down his t-shirt. He opened his mouth a few times but snapped it shut before speaking. He sent a glare towards the door through which everyone had disappeared then seemed to come to a decision, swiped some loose strands of hair off his face and cleared his throat.

“Hi,” Harry said, the single syllable sounding fragile as it hung in the air between them, but it was enough to break the stalemate. 

“Excuse me?” Draco snapped, finally finding his voice. “You turn up here, in Britain, on Diagon Alley, in the shop _adjacent to mine,_ after fifteen fucking years without a word and all you have to say is ‘hi’?” He clenched his hands into fists so Harry wouldn’t be able to see them trembling. Every emotion he’d done his best to ignore since that night by the lake came flooding back, swirling around inside him, making it impossible to settle on just one. One disagreement and Harry had walked away without a fight, had ignored each one of Draco’s letters, had very publicly taken up with Ginevra, _knowing_ Draco’s feelings about her, had fled the country without a single fucking word—Harry Potter, the hero who always fought for what he believed in had deliberately chosen not to fight for Draco and now he had the gall to walk back into Draco’s life with nothing but a weak _’hi.’_

Draco didn’t know whether to hex him or punch him in the face. To say nothing of what he was planning to do to George, Ron, Blaise, Neville, and any other person he found out had kept this news from him.

Harry blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “Look, I’m sorry no one told you I was coming, I didn’t ask them to do that. If it makes you feel any better, they didn’t tell me either. I was going to give it a few weeks before I contacted you. You know. Thought maybe we could leave the past where it is. Be friends again?” He held out his hand expectantly. The chance to start over. Draco remembered holding out a similar olive branch to Harry twice before; that one time when they were eleven, when he’d been rejected, and then the only other time—in the eighth year common room after everyone else had slunk off to bed—when Harry had finally accepted, agreeing to put the past behind them. 

Well, fuck if he was going to do that now.

Draco cast one last disdainful glare at Harry’s hand, still hanging in the air between them, and then looked away, smoothing a neatly manicured finger along his lower lip. He was fully aware of how petty he was being, but he needed to regain some balance; Harry acting maturely had severely wrong-footed him. “Why here?” he asked after a moment’s consideration, enjoying watching Harry sweat out of the corner of his eye. “You could have gone anywhere; why pick the shop next door to mine?”

Harry sighed and dropped his hand back to his side, pursing his lips. Much to Draco’s continued irritation, he didn’t look surprised by the snub, just sort of… disappointed, maybe a little peeved. “Honestly, I didn’t know where my shop was going to be. I told George I wanted a shop somewhere with a lot of foot traffic and then set him loose with access to my vault. I seriously had no idea we would be neighbours until after I got here.”

This brought Draco up short. He wasn’t sure he believed Harry’s words—he surely must have had some idea of the location before contracts were signed. What sort of imbecile threw tens of thousands of Galleons at premises he knew literally nothing about? And how had Harry not heard of Eltanin? Draco’s reputation stretched the length and breadth of Europe! The words still cut deeply, though, and Draco refused to unpack why that was. He paused to regain his equilibrium before answering. “So, no one… No one told you?” _About me_ he almost added, which, though implied, would have sounded desperate and needy out loud. 

“Come on, I wouldn’t have okay’d it if they had, it’s not exactly ideal, is it?”

Draco stilled, his jaw twitching as he suppressed a wince, because _Ow_. He slowly sucked in a breath through his nose. “Well, no one’s forcing you to stay. If I’m that repellent to you, then leave. There are plenty of other high streets upon which to inflict your wares.”

“That’s not what I meant. Why are you being like this?” Harry snapped, losing the calm facade for a moment. “It’s _your_ fault we broke up, remember? You don’t get to be pissed off.” He turned around with an exasperated huff and took a few steps away, one hand twitching at his side, while the other fisted his hair. Hair that was longer than Draco ever remember seeing on Harry before. What was he thinking, growing it out so long? He’d barely managed to tame it when it was shorter, and somehow thought growing more of it would improve matters? Idiot. Not that it looked bad, but… 

Harry turned back, looking at him expectantly, and Draco realised not only had he been staring at stupid Potter’s stupid hair, but also that he’d forgotten to answer.

He sneered to cover up his embarrassment and jutted out his jaw. Fuck Potter. He didn’t owe him anything.

Harry sighed. “Look, Draco, please, can’t we just—” He stepped forward, edging closer, and for a sickening moment, Draco thought he was about to be hugged, so he hastily stepped back to put some much-needed distance between them. This wasn’t a fuzzy reunion between long-lost friends, not by any measure, and he wasn’t about to let Harry drag him back into his orbit. They could be acquaintances, perhaps, at a stretch, but nothing more. 

He held up his hand to silence Harry before he could finish whatever platitude he was halfway to spouting. He wasn’t here for a conversation rehashing their past, or some Hufflepuffian discussion of feelings. In the best-case scenario, they pretended that nothing ever happened between them and continued with their separate lives, perhaps stretching to a polite nod if they passed in the street. “Keep the noise down and don’t disrupt my business or upset my customers in any way, and I perhaps we can maintain some degree of civility between us,” he said, pleased with how calm and authoritative his voice sounded.

“The last thing I want to do is disrupt your business,” Harry said with a huff of annoyance.

“In that case, may I recommend some stronger soundproofing wards.” Draco turned to leave, but then caught sight of the crowd outside the door, just visible through the gaps in the posters plastered over the windows. “And kindly ask your fan club to move on. My customers are unable to get to my door.”

Harry looked over Draco’s shoulder and chuckled, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Sure, no problem.” 

He seemed to be about to say something else, so Draco paused for a fraction of a second but when nothing was forthcoming, Draco turned back to the door. Before he could reach the dull brass knob though, though Harry blurted: “Hey, it’s good to see you, by the way. You’re looking good— well. I mean well. That you’re looking.” 

The words ran together as they tripped over themselves to spew from Harry’s mouth, but Draco knew there was no mistaking what he had heard. He felt heat crawling up his neck, no doubt staining his cheeks with unattractive blotchiness, and scrabbled for the handle so he could escape before Harry saw and assumed he’d managed to fluster him. On his third attempt, his sweaty hand was able to gain purchase on the smooth metal knob and he yanked the door open, stumbling forward into the fresh air and face-first into the ample bosom of Geraldine Shacklebolt, busybody sister of the Minister for Magic.

Draco was rapidly wondering why he bothered getting out of bed that morning.

*

“Bloody Potter!” Draco slammed the gallery door shut behind him, creating sudden, sharp, gust. The paperwork, which he’d spent all morning working on, and which he’d sorted into neat, orderly piles, was whipped up into the air and fluttered gracefully to the floor.

“Bloody fuck” he spat, getting onto his knees to retrieve some stray invoices from beneath a table. 

“All stupid Potter’s fault,” he grumbled as he slapped the jumbled collection of paperwork on to his desk and flopped into his Niffler-down stuffed dragonhide chair. 

The massage function kicked in, as it always did when the tension in his muscles tipped a certain point, the rolling motion of the balls against his lower back slowly bringing him down from exceptionally pissed off to plain vexed. He raised his fingers to his temples and rubbed in tandem with the chair, focusing on his breathing and willing the headache he could feel brewing to fuck off.

Why was Harry here? What was his game? Why was he acting like they could just be friends now, after everything? They were _never_ friends. Not properly. They went straight from enemies to fucking. The friendship came after—if it could even have been called a friendship. It was mostly just them passing the time until they could sneak off somewhere private and get down to the important business of touching each other up. What was he playing at, acting like Draco was some sort of forgotten fourth member of the golden trio? Their entire relationship had been built on tense truces, drunken snogs, and secret hand jobs.


	2. Chapter 2

_The door frame wavered out of reach as Draco grabbed for it and he narrowly avoided pitching both he and Harry to the floor. He hadn’t realised he was quite so drunk, but even at Hogwarts, it wasn’t normal for door frames to slide out of reach._

_“S’okay, s’okay,” Harry mumbled. Merlin, he was pissed too. But of course he was, that was why Draco had offered to escort him to his room. _

_“So. Here it is,” Draco said, waving a hand expansively at the interior of the room Harry shared with Weasley. _

_“Wanna come in?” Harry stumbled over to his bed and collapsed back onto the mattress with a groan. “Come on,” he said, patting the bed beside him._

_“What about the Weasel?”_

_“Ron.”_

_“What?”_

_“Ron. His name. Say it or you can’t get into my bed.” He folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, smiling the beatific smile of someone well into their cups._

_Draco rolled his eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to get into your bed. For a start, it has you in it.”_

_“Yeah, it does. But you like that. I know. I see you looking. Perving. Watching me. Thinkin’ I can’t see. But I do.” He opened his eyes, winked lazily at Draco then just stared at him, his lidded gaze full of promises that Draco _knew_ he should ignore. _

_Draco felt his face heat, even with the alcohol softening his intolerance to cringe-worthy revelations._

_He knew he should bid Harry goodnight—they were both far too drunk for any sensible decisions to be made—but instead, Draco cleared his throat, raked his eyes over Harry’s prone form, intentionally pausing for a beat as his gaze caught upon the noticeable bulge in Harry’s jeans. “Where’s Ron?” he asked, loading as much meaning on those two words as he could. “What would he say if he were to walk in and find you in bed with me?”_

_Harry laughed. “Probably something along the lines of ‘About bloody time’. Anyway, I owe him for that time I walked in on him and ‘Mione. That freckly white arse is staying with me ‘til I die. Again. And I could have done without seeing Hermione with her hands bound to the bed posts.” Harry shuddered._

_“You poor thing.” Draco purred, stepping into the room. “I suppose it’s only fair we do something to get him back.” _

_“Yeah,” Harry said breathily, the smile changing to something smaller, more private. He ran a hand down his chest and slipped it beneath the waistband of his trousers, his eyes fluttering shut with a guttural groan._

_If there had been any doubt in Draco’s mind about the turn the night was taking… He flung the door shut and prowled towards Harry, his eyes not leaving Harry’s for a second. And when he straddled Harry’s legs, when Harry dragged him down by the front of his shirt and kissed him like Draco was actually worth something, he knew, even in his drunken state, he knew he’d have to be careful not to get in too deep._

*

“Are you over your snit now? Is it safe to speak or will I find myself rehomed in the dustbin?”

“What do you want?” Draco snapped, scowling up at the painted form of his meddlesome great-granduncle. “What possible criticism of my conduct could you have to offer me?”

Hephaestus sniffed and turned his head. “If you’re going to address me in that manner then I shan’t say. What would your father do if he heard you disrespect your elders in such a way?”

“Thankfully we’ll never know. Because he’s dead.”

Draco ignored Hephaestus’s spluttered outrage with practised ease as he flicked through his appointment book to check what he had on that afternoon.

“If you must know,” he said, once Hephaestus had quietened down, “an ex of mine has turned up out of the blue and bought the empty shop next door. It’s… not the best news I’ve heard recently.”

Hephaestus made a thoughtful noise. “The shop you tried to purchase?”

“Yes.” Draco snapped the appointment book shut. “Please, rub it in a bit more, why don’t you.”

“Well, what’s she selling? Is she competition? Do we have a high street battle on our hands?” he said, and if he hadn’t just been paint on canvas, Draco would have sworn he saw a demonic glint in his eye.

“Compet— That’s really not the point! The point is, my ex-_boyfriend_ was in cahoots with people I considered friends to buy the shop next door to mine! It’s a betrayal! And what could he possibly be up to? And what—” Draco paused, suddenly aware that he had no clue what Harry was actually selling. He hoped it was something quiet. Cushions, perhaps. Frilly, saviour-shaped pillows. He laughed as he thought of little old ladies filling their houses with Harry-patterned soft furnishings. Maybe Draco would buy a Harry cushion just so he could sit on it and squash his stupid head; Harry’s face under Draco’s arse, where it belonged… Damn. He screwed his eyes shut and forced the thought as far away as he could get it. It was the last thing he needed, to be thinking of… to be remembering… _that._ “I’m going to work in the back,” he said in a rush. “Alert me if anyone comes in.” With that said, he fled to the office-slash-storeroom-slash-staffroom at the back of the shop before Hephaestus could think to question why his ears had turned bright pink.

Draco managed to put in another couple of hours before calling it quits and escaping upstairs to the relative peace of his flat. He immediately kicked off his shoes—shoes that deserved far better treatment than that, he thought, as they thudded unceremoniously to the floor—and grabbed a bottle of sauvignon blanc, a glass, and a jar of mixed olives, then plonked himself down in front of his telly. It was only three, but fuck it. He was pissed off, he might as well be pissed too.

*

Draco woke up with the whine of a drill piercing his skull, his pounding head protesting vehemently at the sound. He knew he’d drunk a little too much, but it hadn’t been enough to be worthy of a hangover that had an actual physical presence.

The whining stopped. And then started again the instant Draco noticed the quiet, and he remembered, despair washing over him, cold and uncomfortable as the previous day’s events solidified in his mind. _Harry Potter._ It hadn’t been a nightmare. He blindly fumbled for his wand on the bedside table and cast a _Silencio_ at the offending wall without getting up. He could still _feel_ the noise, the vibrations like a nest of angry Billywigs under his floor, but at least it was no longer trying to cleave his head open.

Why did Harry have to come back and ruin his peaceful life? _Why?_ As he lay in bed contemplating whether or not he should actually bother getting up, Pansy’s words came floating back to him. He’d Floo-called her last night in a drunken haze of self-pity and Potter-hatred and she’d patiently listened to him bemoaning the current state of his life before saying: “No one says you have to be friends with him. You’re neighbours, not flatmates. When’s the last time you think I spoke to any of my neighbours? That being said, it’s been fucking ages and you’re being an over-dramatic tit, so if you want my advice, take that stick out of your arse and play nice.” Then she’d ended the call, leaving him spluttering indignantly at an empty grate.

“Bloody compassionless harpy,” he grumbled.

He threw off his blankets. Bacon, that’s what he needed. And strong coffee. It was time to stop wallowing; Pansy was right, in a way. Just because he and Harry were neighbours, it didn’t mean they had to interact—it wasn’t like he had all that much to do with Madame Malkin on the other side unless she was angling for a favour—so he was going to get on with his day as normal and hope that Carol wouldn’t judge him too harshly for having a bacon sandwich two days on the trot. And if she did, well then she could fuck off too.

*

Not counting the rude wake-up at stupid o’clock that morning, it was pleasantly quiet next door, and Draco was both relieved and surprised that Harry had taken his noise complaint seriously. He still couldn’t concentrate, regardless, knowing that Harry was there, just the other side of the wall, and the growing crowd loitering in the street made it difficult to pretend that nothing had changed, but he was trying. Someone must have tipped off the media as to the name of the owner of the new shop though, because the crowd was considerably larger than the previous day. It was a terrifying glimpse into what a future with Harry sodding Potter as a neighbour would be like, and yet another reason to dislike him. Twice Draco had lost his temper and snapped at lingerers outside his door to move the fuck along and stop blocking his door, which wasn’t like him at all these days. He’d worked so painstakingly hard to shift people’s perception of him and build his reputation as a respected businessman and valued member of society. Now he was reduced to barking at people in the street and everything was going to be in tatters and it was all Potter’s fault. The final straw came after a couple of people had had the gall to come into his gallery to ask if they could please use his—_his toilet! Since when had Eltanin become a public convenience?_ He had summarily ejected them back into the crowd from which they’d crawled and pulled the charmed, sound-proof shutters down.

Of course, Hephaestus had had plenty to say about the whole horrid affair, none of it helpful, so Draco had lasted five minutes before gathering up his work and moving to the back room of the gallery. It was impossible to seethe effectively with that old man wittering away about propriety and respect and bringing shame upon the family. Draco was _this_ close to spelling him silent and donating him to the nearest Oxfam. Fuck the consequences. 

Cocooned in his blissfully customer-and-Potter-free shop, the crowd noise now nothing but a muffled hum in the background, Draco was finally able to get a little more paperwork and client-schmoozing done. He had a stack of invoices waiting for his attention, but his head was still throbbing and he definitely didn’t feel up for dealing with numbers, so he turned his attention back to his mail. Thanks to the disturbance yesterday, he still had a stack of post from the weekend to sort through, in addition to anything that arrived that morning. There were the usual things; more invoices, requests from his clients, responses from his contacts, and he worked through them methodically until he reached an envelope that looked to be made out of a large leaf folded over… or perhaps it was parchment decorated to look like a leaf? It was very clever, whatever it was, and he was intrigued. He turned it over in his hands, looking for a return address or any other clue as to the sender—he had his suspicions, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up—but there was only his name and the gallery name scrawled across the back in spidery brown letters, barely distinguishable from the veins of the leaf.

It almost seemed a shame to open such a beautiful thing, but he didn’t get where he was by forming attachments to stationery, so he peeled open the flap, his heart in his throat, his body tense with anticipation.

_Mr Malfoy,_

_My art is my own, and I refuse to be just another hired paintbrush, while money-hungry dealers such as yourself get fat off my efforts, my life blood._  
_However. Your proposition has piqued my interest and I would be interested in hearing more._  
_This is by no means an agreement, and I am far from entering into any sort of contract, but you have my ear, Mr Malfoy. Entice me._

_Fabio_

Draco gasped—he may have even squealed but as there was no one around to hear, he was happy to pretend it never happened. This was fantastic news. Fabio was notoriously hard to contact, and near impossible to deal with, but his paintings were highly sought after. No one was really sure where he lived, or even what he looked like since it was said he never went anywhere without a glamour. That he’d bothered to reply to Draco at all was astonishing, and Draco quivered with excitement as he plotted out his next move. If he secured this deal with Fabio, it could be life changing. His reputation would finally reach beyond Europe! Other artists would be tripping over themselves to get their names linked to his gallery, and he’d be able to pick and choose his clients. 

A shout from outside brought him crashing abruptly back to earth. He clutched the letter to his chest, scowling at the interruption to his euphoria. He didn’t want to keep Fabio waiting—he could not afford to fuck this up—but there was no way he could form a worthy response in his current mood. Cursing Harry’s name for the hundredth time that day, he stowed the letter carefully in the safe and decided to make a start on those wretched invoices. 

Draco let a smile slip onto his face as his thoughts slipped back to the letter. Okay, so maybe, right now, he had to put up with his ex-boyfriend moving in next door, but if he managed to secure a deal with Fabio, he wouldn’t even need a gallery on Diagon Alley. He could go wherever he wanted and the clients would follow him. After a bleak twenty-four hours, things were starting to look up.

*

That evening, though, a new kind of banging started. One that didn’t sound much like construction.

It started as a quiet, barely-there rhythmic _thud thud thud_ just as Draco was getting ready for bed, and he would have dismissed it as his imagination but for the fact that it didn’t stop and then gradually got louder, faster, harder to ignore. He pushed the window open with a huff, sticking his head out into the night air to find the source of the irritating noise, but Diagon Alley was quiet. There was a couple zigzagging down the road, the fug of alcohol around them an almost tangible thing; Crystal was in her usual spot outside the narrow entrance to Sapphic Alley, ready to welcome regular customers (and lure new ones) into the club; and Mad Willie was chatting to his dog on the corner. It was a normal, quiet Monday night.

Frustrated, Draco quickly realised the thudding must be coming from inside, and as he stood there with his head cocked, trying to determine the direction, it didn’t take long to work out it was coming from the wall behind his headboard. The wall which adjoined Harry’s flat. And given what Draco knew about the layout of the neighbouring flat from when he’d seen the real estate listing, the floor plan was the mirror image of his. So that must mean the noise, the rhythmic banging, was coming from Harry’s bedroom.

Draco scowled at the wall as the thudding slowed down a touch but didn’t stop. He wasn’t even aware that Harry had moved into the flat already, but this was clear proof that he had. What on earth could he be doing in there? He would be having words with Potter tomorrow, that was for sure. It was bad enough that he had to put up with the banging during the day, but to have it disturb his evening—especially when it was already so hard to relax knowing Harry was back—was beyond the pale. 

The banging got louder again and Draco could even feel it through his bare feet on the floorboards. He curled his hand into a fist and banged back, but the frantic rhythm didn’t even falter so he banged again, harder, and then cast the strongest _Silencio_ he was able to produce. 

As he lay in bed trying, and failing, to ignore the rhythmic vibrations travelling through his bed, it suddenly occurred to him just what Harry might be doing in his bed, and his stomach twisted and soured, his breath catching in his throat. How _could_ he? Surely he must know Draco could hear him! This was a deliberate attempt to piss him off. There was no way it was necessary to cause such an unholy racket—there were spells, for fuck’s sake! Any witch or wizard worth their salt knew to silence the room before embarking on such an activity. 

In a bluster of secondhand embarrassment, and absolutely nothing resembling jealousy because _fuck him_, seriously, Draco grabbed his duvet and pillow and relocated to the sofa. He spent the rest of the night trying to un-hear everything he’d just heard, while unable to erase the ghost of the vibrations juddering through his body. Unable to keep himself from imagining feeling them in a slightly different context. Unable to keep from remembering the vision of Harry curled over him in the dark, hidden behind the hangings of his bed. 

And completely unable to sleep.

*

Draco sat at his desk and cleared a small space for the coffee he’d brought back from Carol’s. His third of the day. He sighed as he took in the state of his in-tray—already overflowing thanks to his inability to concentrate properly on his work for the past couple of days, and he doubted today would go any better. His eyes felt puffy and undignified from lack of sleep, and there was a crick in his neck from trying to fold his tall frame between the arms of his sofa. He’d have transfigured it into something more comfortable, but it was a bespoke piece from an Italian designer and had been infused with all manner of charms so he didn’t want to risk damaging it.

“Burning the candle at both ends, I see.” 

_“Fuck off, Heph.”_ And for once, he did, making Draco feel a little guilty for snapping.

He reluctantly settled down to work and had just replied to his first letter when the bell above the door tinkled. Draco jerked his head up, annoyed that he had already been disrupted, and found a nondescript man with tawny hair standing just inside the gallery. He had a look of wonder plastered across his face as he gazed about the space and for a split second, Draco forgot about his irritation and preened. When the stranger spotted him at his desk in the corner, he grinned broadly and gave a little wave. Draco stifled a sigh, wondering why he had bothered to unlock his shop that morning—he was in no state of mind to deal with inane questions from customers. Then it occurred to him that he _hadn’t_ unlocked the shop. He’d purposefully locked the door behind him after returning from Carol’s so he could clear the backlog in his in-tray without interruption.

He fixed his best customer service smile to his face—it wouldn’t do to antagonise the man if he was a genuine customer.

“Welcome to Eltanin, may I be of assistance?” And then because the man looked more like the knickknack-buying sort of customer, rather than the refined sort he added: “Perhaps you’d be interested in our range of tea towels. We also now stock matching placemats due to customer demand.”

“What?” The man had started to approach Draco, still with that overly friendly grin on his face, but he paused at Draco’s words and his unremarkable brow furrowed deeply before his expression cleared. “Oh! Right, just a sec.” 

It was now Draco’s turn to be confused as the man muttered something under his breath and smoothed a hand down his face. Short, brown hair lengthened and darkened; pale eyes morphed to green; and a horribly familiar scar crept down the forehead. Draco’s stomach plummeted.

_“You.”_

“Morning, Draco,” Harry said brightly, pulling his glasses out of his pocket and sliding them onto his face. He was far too chirpy for someone who’d been up all night shagging hard enough to rattle the walls and Draco didn’t bother to hide his scowl. “Sorry about that.” Harry waved vaguely at his face. “Precaution, you know? Didn’t feel like dealing with that lot out there. Don’t worry,” he added, following Draco’s glare at the door, “I locked it back up behind me.”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure where to start; maybe with Harry’s casual, wandless removal of the complex glamour on his face, or perhaps the way he’d just wandered into Draco’s locked gallery—he _knew_ he hadn’t imagined locking it—without a second thought, or there was also the way he was talking to Draco like they were friends. Merlin, but he was too tired to deal with this shit.

“What do you want, Potter?” Draco gathered up the documents he’d been working on and slotted them back into their folder, making no effort to conceal the name of the exceptionally wealthy and well-known client that was written on the cover. He got up and moved around his desk, trailing one hand along the smooth, lacquered surface. “It may have escaped your notice, but some of us are trying to run a business.”

“Then I suggest you try unlocking the door—makes it much easier for customers to come in.” Harry laughed and Draco had a sudden urge to punch him in his smug face. Instead, he smiled tightly.

“Was there a point to this visit, or are you just here to critique the business practises of my _highly_ successful gallery?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Harry held his hands up placatingly. “Okay, so. Before I say anything, I just want to apologise for turning up without warning the other day. I truly had no idea George hadn’t said anything to you, so yeah. I imagine it was quite a shock. And so, I’m sorry.”

Draco leant back on the edge of his desk and slowly folded his arms across his chest. Raised an eyebrow.

“Anyway,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked nervous and something buried deep, deep within Draco, something he’d hoped was many years dead, longed to reach out, to cup Harry’s cheek and smooth a thumb along the side of his face, tell him he never had to be nervous around him. But no. Not anymore, not ever again. Harry continued, oblivious to Draco’s internal battle: “I really hope we can… move on. I know we didn’t exactly end things on a good note, but maybe we can be friends again? One day?”

He opened his mouth, his first instinct to spit something scathing at Harry, send him scurrying back to his shop with his tail between his legs, but he stopped himself short. He wouldn’t be drawn into a verbal battle. His time was far too important to waste on someone like Harry. “No. I rather think not. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve quite a lot to be getting on with.” 

Harry stared at him, mouth agape, as if Draco had just admitted he thought Voldemort was right all along; confusion and shock and anger all vying for top billing on his face. “So that’s it? You don’t even want to try?”

“Why, Potter? Why would I try? We’ve done that—we tried being _friends_—and look what happened. I’ve no desire to go back.”

“Exactly! I’d rather go forward. I’m no longer afraid of who I am or what people think of me. I don’t see why—”

“Drop it, okay? Just… just stop,” Draco snapped, pushing himself off the desk as his lips closed around the ‘p’. He willed his face to remain blank as a tide of mental images assaulted him. Harry fucking a faceless stranger in a variety of interesting positions while the bed repeatedly slammed into the wall competed with memories of a younger, less rugged, Harry fucking Draco over desks in empty classrooms, or against the wall of the grotty alcove they’d discovered, or that one time in the Quidditch locker room after a weekend pickup game, sweaty and covered in mud… Everything was all so confused and messed up, he just… couldn’t. “I neither want nor need your friendship.” 

He was sure Harry was about to snap—the fingers of his right hand twitched at his side, his nostrils flared, his jaw tensed—but he just breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly through his nose, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Fine. But just so you know, you’re being a dick.” 

Draco stiffened at the insult, but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t really want to draw Harry into an argument that would prolong his visit. Not that he was showing any signs of actually leaving; instead heading deeper into the gallery, pausing only to prod one of the sculptures with a blatant disregard for the _PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH_ sign. 

“Are you done?” Draco asked, eager to eject Harry from his gallery so he could continue pretending that he hadn’t spent the night ignoring the sounds and vibrations of Harry’s rampant love-making.

Harry looked around from the painting of two very beautiful, very _naked_ young men wrestling—one of the few Muggle paintings in the gallery that Draco actually wished was magical—and sighed, resigned. “Sure.” He replaced the glamour with another irritatingly effortless wave as he walked back to the door. Before he reached it though, he stopped. Turned around. He was so close, Draco could smell him, and his heart stuttered with a surge of remembrance. The cologne was different, the scent of his shop clinging to his clothes was new, but underneath that, he was the same. He smelled like Harry. There was no mistaking it. 

“Here. You might as well have this. It’s the reason I came over, after all.” 

Harry thrust a bright orange piece of paper at him and Draco took it without even thinking, staring at the chunky black letters as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

_SIRIUS SOUNDS_  
_Your one stop music shop, catering for all musical tastes._  
_Can’t find what you like? We’ll order it in!_  
_Magical and Muggle — No band too obscure!_

_Find us on Diagon Alley, between Eltanin and Dressed in Black.  
Grand Opening 26th April!!!_

The door chime tinkled, and Draco looked up in time to see Harry’s glamoured form disappearing into the crowd. The only sign that he’d even been there was Draco’s elevated heart rate and the lingering scent of leather and sawdust. Draco distractedly locked the door—casting a stronger charm this time—and stared back at the hideously bright piece of paper in his hand. It was a flyer. For Harry’s new shop.

Draco scrunched the offending piece of paper up into a tight ball and _Incendio’d_ it before it could hit the ground. Like fuck would he be going to the opening of a shop that would no doubt ruin his life. A music shop. Harry was opening a bloody music shop. That didn’t sound quiet _at all._ He slumped into his chair and let his head fall to the desk. Fuck everything.

“I assume that was the ex-boyfriend of which you’ve been bemoaning of late.”

“Hephaestus. How wonderful of you to chime in,” Draco muttered without lifting his head. The cool surface helped to soothe the stress headache he could feel developing.

“Scruffy fellow, isn’t he. Hardly the type befitting a Malfoy’s attention.”

“At least we can agree on something.” Draco wearily pushed up from his chair and fixed a sign to the door asking genuine customers to ring the bell for his attention. What he wanted was to shut up shop completely and crawl back to bed, but he’d be damned if he gave Harry the satisfaction of having driven him from his work. So instead he settled on laying down on the sofa in his office at the back of the gallery with a cooling charm applied to his forehead. 

Ignoring Hephaestus’ grumbling about his attitude being bad for business, he closed his eyes and wondered how long it would take people to realise there was no bell.

* 

The next couple of days were unexpectedly peaceful—so much so Draco could almost believe that Harry hadn’t barged in to destroy his quiet life like an Erumpent in an apothecary. Even the huge crowd outside the shop slowly started to drift away. Enough remained that their presence was still mildly irritating, but at least they weren’t sitting on Draco’s doorstep anymore.

Official news of Harry’s long-awaited return to the UK broke on Thursday morning with much less fanfare than Draco had been expecting. He would have put money on it being headline news, but as it was, he almost missed the story, tucked away on the bottom half of page ten in the _Prophet_ that morning: _Diagon Alley’s Newest Arrival is Music to Our Ears!_ It was all rather… underwhelming as far as announcements went. He felt sure Hermione must have had a hand in it; she was the only one he could think of who wielded enough power over the press to smother any excitement over Harry’s return. Unless, of course, they really didn’t care all that much any more. It had been so long since Harry had last been seen, and he’d quit the wizarding world in quite spectacular fashion too. Maybe the press had tired of him? Draco had followed the coverage of his fall from grace with glee—the media backlash he’d faced after his split from Ginevra, having to quit his job amid a scandal that had culminated in the assault of a press photographer, holing himself away in that mausoleum of a house for months before he fled the UK completely—it made for delicious reading, even though part of him (a part he squashed down and pushed to the deepest recesses of his heart) ached to make everything better. 

Despite the unnaturally subdued press reaction, the public were evidently still interested. The crowd had mostly moved on from outside his shop, but the few times Draco caught sight of Harry walking along Diagon Alley, there were always plenty of curious eyes on him. People seemed to maintain a polite distance, though (aside from the odd few that nervously approached and shook Harry’s hand.) Not that Draco had spent a great deal of time observing Harry as he wandered between Sirius Sounds and Wheezes and Fortescue’s, but it was hard not to notice him when all conversation ceased as he walked passed. Although, perhaps people were entranced by the ugly black and white rat-dog thing that seemed to accompany Harry wherever he went, rather than Harry himself—Draco had no idea where this creature had come from, but it was just another reason to avoid Harry as far as he was concerned. Was it part Murtlap? He’d never seen anything so hideous.

It felt like things were slowly returning to normal, and as he settled into bed on Saturday night after a pleasant evening at a gallery opening in Birmingham, Draco started to think that having Harry Potter next door might not be as horrific as he’d first imagined.


	3. Chapter 3

_It was a dream. Draco knew this because the face before him was young, eyes fierce, determined, full of pain. They were eighteen again, both rubbed raw by the recent war, feeling numb and reckless from having survived something neither of them should have. They were in his old dorm room, the one he used to share with Blaise with the dark brown curtains and beige walls that seemed designed to suck more of your personality out with each passing second. He’d hated that room, even after he and Blaise had covered every inch with posters and drawings and pictures of their friends; it had always felt too close how he felt inside. Like he was an empty space, masking his blankness with pretty pictures that only superficially covered the problem. It was Harry who made him feel again, made him think that maybe he was worth something, that maybe he could become more than his name and his past._

_In his dream-state, Draco felt like he was both reliving the experience and watching from a safe distance. He could see his own face, open and wrecked, his hands curled over Harry’s shoulders, nails digging into Harry’s damp skin. But he could also see Harry’s face above him as he pounded him into the mattress, messy black hair clinging to his forehead, sweat dripping off his nose and chin and splashing onto Draco’s chest. He remembered this moment clearly—the first time they’d fucked face-to-face, and the first time Draco had realised he was, perhaps, in a little deeper than he’d wanted. They only did it like this one more time—when Draco had been drunk enough and needy enough to lower his walls—because it was hard to maintain any emotional distance when Harry was staring so earnestly into his eyes, moaning Draco’s name over and over as he thrust into him. Draco remembered how he’d spent the next week avoiding Harry until his libido (and definitely not his heart) had made that impossible. _

_The bed shook beneath him, thudding rhythmically against the wall, as Harry pounded harder and harder. The thought flittered through his head that he should ask Harry to pull back a bit in case Goldstein and Boot in the room next door wondered what all the noise was—did they really want to come out to their classmates while naked, sweaty, and in a position that would be impossible to explain away as anything other than exactly what it was?_

_Harry’s movements increased in intensity and all coherent thought fled. Draco felt near delirious with the need to come. He pushed back, trying to match Harry’s rhythm but he was moving too quickly, and Draco emitted a low, frustrated whine. He just needed a bit… a little… more… _

*

Draco gasped, suddenly awake as his orgasm tore through him. He wrapped his hand around his cock to ride the last of it out, shuddering with each wave of pleasure. Chuckling breathily to himself, he wiped his hand on his pyjama top. He’d not woken up like that in a long time—perhaps it was a sign he needed to get out and meet someone. Or see to his own needs with a little more regularity. He stretched lazily, ignoring the wetness in his pyjamas for the time being so he could just enjoy the after-glow of the surprise orgasm. It took him a few moments to notice that the shaking and banging hadn’t stopped, but when he did, a cold dread prickled up his spine and wrapped icy fingers around his neck, replacing the warm, satisfied glow he’d felt mere seconds before.

He sat bolt upright, horrified, clenching fistfuls of duvet so tightly his knuckles blanched. He’d just got himself off to years-old memories of his ex while said ex was shagging some random person on the other side of the wall. Someone he was _still_ shagging. Mortified didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling. Disgusted. Horrified. Nauseated. He leapt out of bed, yanking the duvet off and gathering it up in his arms.

“I hope your cock falls off!” he yelled, thumping the wall hard with his fist, before stomping into the bathroom to scrub the shame from his skin. Fucking Potter.

* 

Draco took a grateful sip of the macchiato he’d brought back from Carol’s. She’d added something to it again, but wouldn’t tell him what. He suspected it was nothing more sinister than vanilla, though he wouldn’t put anything past her. She’d also given him an extra pastry to take away—a freshly baked cinnamon bun dripping with icing—because according to her he looked like he’d ‘had a time of it’ lately; she could be aggressively grandmotherly if she thought someone needed looking after, but he wasn’t about to complain. He much preferred her brand of caring through forced pastries and coffee syrups than his mother’s nosy, interfering approach. Regular Sunday luncheon at Mother’s the day before had been a trial and a half. It was always the same tiresome conversations.

_“You look unwell, darling,” she’d said._

_“I’m just tired,” he’d replied._

_“You work too hard. Isn’t it time you gave up this silliness and took up your rightful place here in the Manor?”_

_“I enjoy my work, Mother. It’s everything else that tires me.”_

_“You’re not getting any younger, if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself old and alone. I know plenty of potential suitors—even a few who match your specific tastes.”_

_“Better old and alone, than stuck in a loveless marriage for the sake of it, Mother. If I ever need your help finding a partner—which I won’t—I’ll be sure to let you know.” _

And so it had gone, the same topics rehashed over and over until Draco was able to make his excuses and leave. He usually had a little more patience when dealing with her specific form of mothering, but thanks to Harry’s nighttime adventures, it had taken every last bit of strength he had to visit in the first place. He loved her, but… it was much easier to do from afar. He’d have to try again to convince her to move abroad.

As was normal for a Monday morning, the stack of mail in Draco’s in-tray was dangerously close to toppling onto the floor, so he put thoughts of his mother out of his head and reached for a handful to start sorting through it. Not for the first time, he wondered why he hadn’t yet hired someone to do this for him, but then he remembered that it would involve trying to teach someone his very specific methods of doing things, which they would undoubtedly ignore in favour of doing it all their own way anyway, and he decided that nothing would be worth that. 

Fabio’s newest letter—this time in a small parcel-like envelope created from what looked like a folded banana leaf—was near the top of the stack and Draco’s mood soared the instant he spotted it. In his last reply, Draco had proposed that Fabio visit his gallery—a bold move with a notoriously reclusive artist, but Draco felt like they had a… connection, or something less saccharine. Just the fact that Fabio had replied to Draco at all meant that he was already leaps ahead of other art dealers. It was a thrilling sensation to realise how far the reputation he’d forged for himself had brought him. 

Draco was riding high on the buzz from Fabio’s letter all morning. He’d whizzed through his correspondence despite having a steady stream of walk-ins and had finally taken a moment to find a location for a couple of new paintings he’d had delivered. When the bell above the door tinkled, signalling another curious art lover, or knickknack purchaser, he didn’t bother to break from his task—Hephaestus was more than capable of dealing with all but the more complicated questions—but kept half an ear out in case there were problems.

He continued with his task for a few moments, but something about Hephaestus’ tone was unusual. He was talking far louder than normal, as if he was trying to attract Draco’s attention without doing anything as uncouth as shouting out his name. _Was someone trying to rob him? Or worse, were they _touching_ the artwork?_ Draco paused what he was doing and listened, trying to formulate a plan of escape on the fly because he’d never once seriously considered what he would do if someone tried to rob him, which in retrospect was a tad foolish and spoke volumes about his deep-seated arrogance. He crept closer to the front of the gallery, wand out, moving with barely a whisper, and he was finally able to make out Hephaestus’s grumblings.

“Of course! You’re the Potter boy. Forgive an old man, these eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Draco’s hand clenched involuntarily around his wand. Harry? What was Harry doing here again? His face flushed as the events of Saturday night came rushing back to the forefront of his mind.

He rounded the final display and there was Harry, standing by Draco’s desk, grinning at Hephaestus. His hair was gathered up loosely into a messy knot at the back of his head. He had on a red and black checkered shirt open over a white t-shirt and there was a hole in one knee of his jeans. Everything was kind of rumpled and tired-looking, as if he’d rooted around in his washing basket and blindly grabbed things from the bottom. He must have caught movement in the corner of his eye, because he turned, catching Draco completely unawares and giving him a little wave. 

“Hi Draco. I think your friend was trying to warn you that I was here,” Harry said innocently as Hephaestus blustered and spluttered indignantly in the background.

Draco drew himself up to his full height, attempting to look like he’d not just been skulking in the shadows. “And why _are_ you here?” he sneered.

“Because… I was passing and I thought I’d pop in and say hi?”

“You live and work next door. Please don’t tell me this is going to become a regular occurrence.”

Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head, huffing out a humourless laugh. “Why do you have to make this so difficult?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re so… so snippy all the time, so—” he wafted his hands, clearly not clever enough to find actual words with which to convey his feelings.

“Maybe it’s because I’m tired all the time since my irritating new neighbour thunders about in his flat like a drunk Hippogriff.”

“What? I don’t—”

“Do you think I’m making it up?”

“Er, no? Maybe? I don’t know. I—” He let out an exasperated groan and closed his eyes for a moment, he hand tightening into a fist in his hair, tugging several strands out of the bun. “I’m sorry for keeping you up with whatever sounds you _think_ you might have heard—” He held up a hand to still Draco’s complaint before it could leave his tongue. “Here. I brought you this.” He thrust a brown paper bag toward Draco, holding it at arm’s length, daring him to take it with a casual quirk of his lips. 

Draco eyed the package, curiosity and an inability to back down from any challenge issued by Harry driving him to close the distance and snatch it from Harry’s outstretched hand. He peered inside, fully prepared to toss it in Harry’s face if it turned out to be full of Chizpurfles.

“It’s from this cute little cafe I found down the road, Karen’s or something?”

“Carol’s,” Draco corrected absently. In the bottom of the bag was one of Carol’s apple turnovers. Draco had seen them on the counter that morning, the pastry deliciously golden brown and flaky, sugar crystals glittering seductively in the overhead lights. He always chose something else these days, though.

“You know it?”

“Of course I bloody well do,” Draco snapped, setting the bag down on his desk. “Why did you bring me this? Do you think I’m incapable of procuring my own pastries?”

“Because it’s a nice thing to do?” Harry shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets and briefly glancing off to the side before pinning Draco with the full force of his green-eyed stare. “And because when I saw them in the cafe this morning, I remembered how much you used to love them and I couldn’t help myself. I… well. I guess I’m still trying to make peace with you even though you’re being a massive dick. So, yeah. More fool me.”

“Oh.” Draco wasn’t sure what else to say. He felt some of his irritation drain away under Harry’s earnest gaze, the crooked grin with accompanying dimples—the one on the left cheek deeper than the one on the right—that always used to make his knees weak, every time. Apparently, it still had the power to soften his insides to soupy mush. For one glorious moment it felt like they’d never been apart, that the years and the distance were nothing but a horrid nightmare. But then he remembered the very recent and _very_ enthusiastic shagging of someone else and he realised with renewed clarity that the palpitation-inducing smile wasn’t something specifically for him; Harry’s niceness wasn’t special or anything to go wobbly about. He was probably out there every night, flashing his dimples and his stupid green eyes at anyone who took his fancy, luring them back to his flat so he could fuck them raw against Draco’s bedroom wall. 

He steeled himself, forcing all emotion from his face. Mustn’t let Potter see any weakness.

Harry’s cocky grin faltered. “Right, well. I should, er. Go. I need to talk to some suppliers. I’ll see you soon, yeah?” 

“Not if I can help it,” Draco muttered as Harry left the gallery with an uncertain wave. 

He shoved the brown paper bag to one side and tried to take his mind off recent irritations with some interminably dull invoices. Despite his stomach’s protestations, he refused to eat Harry’s gift—that would be tantamount to accepting it—but he couldn’t bring himself to vanish it, or even throw it in the bin. Instead, it sat on his desk, judging him, always in the corner of his eye no matter where he looked. The sweet smell of sugary apple hung over his desk, demanding to know why he was ignoring it.


	4. Chapter 4

_Harry leant towards him, a piece of pastry held in his teeth, and Draco gently took it in his own, swiping his tongue over Harry’s lips to catch the crumbs then chasing his lips for a sticky kiss as Harry tried to pull back. He’d sent a note to Draco earlier that day asking him to come to their usual meeting spot at nine, and when Draco had turned up, he’d found Harry sitting on a patchwork quilt with a wicker basket overflowing with pastries. That was over half an hour ago now, and it only just occurred to Draco to question what they were doing._

_“This is ridiculous. Remind me again why you thought this would be a good idea?”_

_“It’s our two month anniversary, we’re allowed to be ridiculous.” Harry plucked another pastry out of the basket and tore off a chunk. He popped it into his mouth with a low rumbling moan that went straight to Draco’s dick despite the shock he felt at Harry’s words._

_“I wasn’t aware that this… this thing between us was, um. Quantifiable.”_

_Harry grinned and poked Draco in the leg with his socked foot. “How could you have forgotten that on this day, two months ago, I first got my lips around your dick and then proceeded to blow your brains out in this very spot.” _

_A shiver of delight travelled up Draco’s spine. He remembered that time well, often revisited it at night, or in the shower, or while watching Harry suck on a Sugar Quill in class… “I suppose I’ll indulge you then,” he sighed._

_“Hoping for a repeat performance?”_

_“I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t one, to be honest.”_

_“Hmm, I think I can accommodate you.” Harry grinned, popping another piece of turnover in his mouth and then sucking the sugar off his fingers one by one. Draco groaned. He was finished. Done. He’d never be able to watch Harry eat a pastry again without thinking about those lips around his cock. Breakfast in the Great Hall was going to be torture._

_He leant back on his elbows as Harry crawled over him, straddling his hips and kissing him deeply. He tasted like apple and sugar, sweet and sticky, and Draco felt his defences lowering with each passing second. His resistance weakening. He decided to ignore the part where they were apparently marking anniversaries now, all energy focused on the way Harry was taking him apart with his clever tongue._

*

“Will that be all?” Draco asked politely, totalling up Mrs Charlesworth’s purchases—three packs of bespoke gift cards, a soap dish, and an Eltanin-exclusive Dean Thomas landscape he’d only acquired the day before and hadn’t even displayed yet. Elspeth Charlesworth was an obscenely wealthy dowager who visited Eltanin at least once a month to peruse his stock, and often spent an eye-watering amount of money. Most of his wealthier patrons tended to commission his services via owl—mingling with the riff-raff on Diagon Alley obviously too much for their delicate sensibilities—but Mrs Charlesworth made a point of coming in and talking his ear off about, well, every little thing that crossed her mind. He didn’t mind so much because she brought with her an abundance of high society gossip, and he’d gotten insider information about people selling off art collections more than once, but her visits tended to take up several hours of his time and he was still trying to catch up on things he’d fallen behind with since Harry’s arrival. She’d chatted so long today, even Hephaestus had gotten bored and nodded off.

“Yes thank you, dear, although I’ll definitely be back for those stationery sets you told me about.” 

“I look forward to it. I’ll have the painting packaged and owled to you by this evening.”

“Wonderful. You’re an absolute gem.” She patted Draco’s hand and stared up at him, her watery eyes lit with a playful spark. He knew what was coming next, so he affixed a pleasant smile to his face and waited for the inevitable. “Are you sure you don’t want the address of that nice young man I told you about? He’s ever so dishy.”

He fought the sigh and the eye roll. “I’m certain, Mrs Charlesworth. Thank you for your interest in my love life, but I’m doing fine by myself.”

“Of course, dear. Of course. I worry ever so much about you getting lonely, though. At least you have that adorable little dog now to keep you company.”

Draco blinked, the practised, polite smile wavering. “Pardon me?”

“Yes, ugly little thing, but terribly sweet. What’s his name?”

“I, uh… what?”

“Oh, will you look at the time, I was supposed to meet Eliza ten minutes ago!”

Draco watched her bustle out of the gallery as he processed her words. Dog? He didn’t have a dog. Why did she think he had a dog? He didn’t even know anyone with a dog, except… There was a _clack clack clack_ of nails on his floor, a wheezing, snuffling sound, and when he looked up he was met with the bug-eyed stare of that hideous rat-dog he’d seen trailing after Harry.

“What are you doing in here? Shoo, you hell-spawn.” He flapped his hands at the dog, but it just sat on the floor, cocked its head to one side and continued to stare at him, tongue lolling out of its mouth. “Go on, shoo!”

Draco marched over to the door and yanked it open. “I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re not welcome. Go! Leave this instant! Scram!”

The dog watched him unblinkingly, a glob of drool dripping from its tongue and splashing on the hardwood floor. Draco shuddered and the dog’s tail started moving, hesitantly at first, swishing from side to side and whacking against the base of a sculpture.

“Be gone!” he shouted.

“Sweet Merlin, from which circle of hell did you summon that beast?” Hephaestus asked. 

“Oh good, you’re awake. Do you know anything about removing unwanted dogs?”

“Do I look like an exterminator?”

“No, but it’s about time you made yourself useful after leaving me to deal with Mrs Charlesworth on my own.”

Hephaestus sighed, rubbed his chin with a chubby, bejewelled hand. His eyes cut to the side and he leant forward conspiratorially in his chair. “Well, I know of a few spells that would deal with the problem permanently…”

“What? I don’t want him murdered! I want him gone from _here_, not expunged from existence! Can you imagine what people would do to me if I offed the Saviour’s pet… thing?”

“Well you’d better do something soon because he looks like he’s about to relieve himself.”

“Good lord.” Unwilling to leave the dog alone in his gallery, Draco cast a Patronus and sent it to Harry, demanding he retrieve his dog immediately.

“What do we do now?” Hephaestus asked as the silvery tail passed through the wall into Harry’s shop

“We wait, and pray that the bloody thing is toilet trained.” 

Over half an hour later, just as Draco was beginning to consider utilising one of the spells Hephaestus had mentioned, Harry burst through the door, flushed and out of breath.

“Hey! Sorry, I was… uh, out,” he huffed, clutching at his side. Strands of hair that had escaped his messy bun clung damply to his face while shorter bits stuck up from his head creating a kind of halo of fuzz. He was wearing a bright yellow Hufflepuff t-shirt with the sleeves cut off—_what did he have against sleeves?_—and a pair of tight black shorts that barely skimmed the bottom of his arse cheeks. His exposed skin glistened with a sheen of sweat that both repulsed Draco and made his groin tingle and heat with inconvenient arousal.

The dog, who under Draco’s watchful glare had eventually curled up under his desk on a cushion he’d transfigured from a sheet of paper, scurried over to Harry’s feet, all tongue and drool and snorting yaps.

“Mortie! Hello boy!” Harry cried, bending down to scoop the dog up in his arms. “What were you doing, you little escape artist? Sorry you had to hang out with this grumpy old shit.” The beast lapped at Harry’s face while he muttered a stream of unintelligible baby-talk at him. 

“Mortie?”

Harry looked at him over the top of the thing’s head while it continued to snuffle at his chin. “Uh, yeah. Thanks for watching him for me. I have no idea how he got out.”

“It’s not as if I had a choice. Where the fuck were you?”

“I was out for a run, minding my own business, when someone’s bloody Patronus comes prancing around and I had to call the Aurors to _Obliviate_ a park full of Muggles.”

Draco’s irritation was immediately doused by fear. It trickled down his spine, spreading out to the tips of his fingers and toes until his whole body was filled with dread—it may have been years since the war, but there were still those who were eager for him to step out of line, and if he got pulled up on charges of practising magic in front of Muggles, he had no doubt they’d choose to make an example of him. _What had he done??_ “Oh, shit. Fuck. I didn’t— are they coming here? Did they—?”

“Calm down, you tit. I told them it was mine so no one’s coming to drag you into the Ministry. But you’re more than welcome to show up to the ‘Magic, Muggles, and Me’ course they’re forcing me to attend. They seem to think my time in the colonies has rotted my delicate British brain.”

“Ah, well. Thanks… for… for that.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s nothing. You’d do the same for me… or, well. You would have done. Once. Not so sure about that now.” He laughed, but it sounded humourless, hollow. A sad exhalation; a resigned breath. He petted Mortie a short while longer, eyes trained on his hand as it smoothed over the short black and white fur. Draco watched on, shifting his weight from foot to foot, feeling awkward and out of place in his own gallery. He’d been so furious with Harry for letting his dog escape, and then taking so long to turn up, but now… Harry hadn’t sold him out, for whatever reason. He was being nice, and Draco had given him no reason to be. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they could be friends. Maybe… not more, but it was hard not to let his mind drift in that direction when Harry was standing in his shop wearing little more than hot pants and a vest, all sweaty and delicious from exercise.

“Harry…” Draco knew he should say something, perhaps apologise, or at least say thank you properly, but before he could do anything the Floo in the back office chimed.

“You should get probably get that,” Harry said flatly, nodding towards the back of the gallery. “We can see ourselves out, can’t we Mortie Moo?”

Draco watched silently as Harry left with the wretched dog cradled in his arms and his chest tightened. It felt like he’d missed a chance for … something. Whatever it was slipping out of his grasp before he could register it. It was like all those years ago, watching Harry leave, knowing he’d done something irreparable and wanting nothing more than to claw the words back and stuff them down inside. 

That night, when the banging started up, Draco remembered why he and Harry couldn’t be more. Harry wasn’t only nice to him. He was nice to everyone. Draco wasn’t going to be another in the succession of bodies through his bed. He got up and relocated to the sofa, pondering whether it would not be easier to just make the move permanent. Who needed a bedroom anyway?

*

Carol’s that morning had been a welcome change of scenery after another tumultuous night. She’d taken one look at him, shouted back to the kitchen ‘Bacon special, heavy on the HP’ and then topped up his waiting coffee with an extra shot of espresso. Draco had never been more grateful to be a man of routine as he sunk into one of the large comfy chairs by the window and inhaled the salty, bitter mix of aromas from his breakfast.

He dragged his morning visit out as long as he could, but as the cafe gradually filled up with noisy caffeine-seekers he was eventually forced to leave or risk having to share his table. He took a circuitous route back to his gallery, ambling from shop to shop, nodding greetings to familiar faces, exchanging a few pleasantries, browsing the new window displays, the handles of a sturdy brown paper bag clutched in his hands, until he could put it off no longer. 

The name _Sirius Sounds_ was now proudly displayed over the leaded window of Harry’s shop. The large, black, acrylic block capitals were set boldly against a white background, a marked difference from most of the other shops with their wooden boards and hand-painted signage. Draco hated to admit it, but it actually looked good beside his gallery; two modern flagships against a backdrop of traditionalism and stagnation. He wasn’t against the aesthetic of Diagon Alley—he actually enjoyed the quaint, higgledy-piggledy look of the street, especially when compared to the bland sameness of some Muggle high streets—but he was glad that the wizarding world no longer fought against change quite so vehemently, and that ideas drawn from the Muggle world were welcomed rather than shunned.

There was still a crowd around Harry’s shop window, despite the glass being papered over on the inside. People were, for some unknown reason, desperate to sneak a peek at the interior transformation, pressing their greasy noses to the glass to try and peer through the gaps. Draco tutted at their desperation and cast one last longing glance at the calm exterior of his own premises, before striding purposefully to Harry’s door. 

It was Neville who opened it, greeting Draco sheepishly as he stood aside to let him in, before slamming the door shut behind him.

“They keep trying to sneak in, and the dog keeps trying to sneak out,” Neville said by way of explanation. “Was I making too much noise? We renew the charms every morning, but I guess one of them could have failed or…”

Draco rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not here about the construction noise. But thank you for your consideration. Is Potter around?”

“Oh! Yeah, just a sec. He’s out the back.” Neville practically wilted with relief and Draco felt a flicker of guilt. He’d not spoken to Neville or Blaise since finding out that they’d kept Harry’s arrival on Diagon Alley a secret. He should probably invite them around for dinner.

Alone on the shop floor, Draco took a look around. It was vastly different from the last time he was here. It still smelled like sawdust and paint, with the less-than-pleasant tang of body odour mixed in, but now there was something else, an undertone of… mustiness? Yes, that was it, or as close as he could get to describing it. It was the unmistakable aroma of decades-old vinyl collections and he was instantly reminded of being dragged around Muggle record shops by Harry during school holidays. He’d not thought about that for years, not smelled that distinctive smell in even longer, but now it wrapped around him, almost comforting in its familiarity. 

No. He wasn’t here to get maudlin and reminisce. He turned his attention outward, to the shop, needing to distract himself from unwelcome recollections. The walls were lined with new shelves, half of which were starting to be filled with records—the source of the odour, no doubt. Two rows of free-standing units ran length-ways from the door to the back wall, creating three aisles, and there was a half-constructed counter in the far corner with a doorway behind it. It was hard not to be impressed by the transformation, even half complete as it was. There was nothing of the dark, cluttered space it had previously been. Familiar music filtered through from somewhere, too quiet for Draco to make out any lyrics or much of a tune, but something about it triggered vague yet painful memories from eighth year. Merlin, but was this what it was going to be like from now on? The constant dredging up of things he’d tried so hard to leave in the past? He couldn’t do this. It was too much, being here surrounded by so much of Harry was like being trapped in a pensieve he couldn’t pull himself out of. 

He took a wobbly step backwards, reaching behind himself for the door handle. He needed to get away. Needed to surround himself with the sleek, modern lines of his gallery. Need to remind himself that he wasn’t eighteen, that he’d moved on, grown up, _changed._

“Draco?” Harry emerged from the door behind the counter, wiping his hands on a ratty-looking tea towel (not from Eltanin, he noted abstractedly). Confusion flickered across his face as he dropped the tea towel on the counter and stepped around a stack of timber.

So much for making an escape. Draco drew himself up and tried to remember all the things he wanted to say that he’d thought up last night while lying on the sofa and staring at his ceiling, but Harry was standing there in another horrendous sleeveless t-shirt with his unfairly muscular arms sweaty and glistening, and his hair pulled off his face in a stupid top knot that was just begging to be released… and no words found their way out.

“Is there a problem? Were we being too noisy?” Harry asked, looking concerned. “I told Nev to use the extra-strength charms if he was drilling.” 

“It’s not the noise,” he said. He embraced the prickle of irritation that flared through him at Harry’s concern because it helped him to ignore the more complicated feelings vying for his attention. “Why do you think I’m here to complain?”

“You’re not?”

“No! When have I once been around to complain?”

“Draco, the _only_ time you’ve been in here was to complain. And people talk—I’ve heard what you’ve been saying about me and my shop to other shopkeepers.”

Draco’s cheeks flooded with heat and he briefly considered Apparating away and never returning, but he steeled himself and ploughed onward with the purpose for his visit. “That’s… neither here nor there. You should know better than to listen to idle gossip. Honestly, Potter. If you must know, I’m here to… to— Here.” He held the bag out for Harry, a mirror of the other day when Harry had brought a very similar, though much smaller, bag to Eltanin.

“What’s this?” Harry asked, peering inside. Draco held his breath as Harry pulled the cake box out and set the empty bag on the floor. When he opened the box, his eyes widened. “You brought me a whole treacle tart? Why?” His expression was soft, almost fond and for the second time in as many minutes, Draco wanted to flee from the shop and hide. Forever.

“It’s not just any old treacle tart. It’s from Carol’s. She baked it fresh this morning. At my request.”

“But… why?”

Draco firmed his jaw and took a breath. It shouldn’t be this hard. Why was Harry making this so difficult? “It’s a thank you, obviously. Thank you for not sending the Aurors after me.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Even though it was your idiot dog’s fault that I had to send the Patronus in the first place,” Draco added hastily. He couldn’t have Harry thinking he was accepting full blame.

“Wow, thanks, Draco. Really.” He grinned broadly, holding Draco’s eye for a beat too long before looking away and clearing his throat. “I mean, I’d have done the same thing for anyone, but thanks.” He smiled again, softer this time, wistful, and put the cake box on the counter. 

Draco nodded stiffly, pressing his hand against his sternum to soothe the sudden tightness in his chest. He knew, realistically, that Harry would have done the same for anyone, but knowing something and hearing the words spoken aloud, just casually tossed out there, were two very different things. How did Harry still have this power over him?

“Um, do you want to join me for a slice? I’ll pop the kettle on and we can sit out back and make the most of the sunshine.”

“Uh…” Draco fumbled. When he’d played out this scenario in his head, it had involved him delivering the tart, the apology, and then leaving. There had never been offers of tea and civil conversation in the equation. 

“Unless you’re too busy, that is. Or scared, perhaps,” Harry said with a sharp grin and quirk of his eyebrow. He didn’t wait for a response before disappearing into a back room and Draco almost left on principle. 

He didn’t though. Of course, he didn’t. Bloody Potter.

Against his better judgement, against every instinct that screamed at him to go home, open up his gallery, and actually try and get some work done, Draco followed Harry through the door. It was morbid curiosity at this point—he certainly had nothing to gain by following him. He couldn’t help himself though; it was as if his feet were operating under different, renegade management.

He wasn’t surprised to discover that Harry’s back room was much the same, dimensions-wise, as his own. Unlike his, though, this room was almost oppressively cluttered. Stacks of boxes lined one wall, with more grouped together in separate piles about the floor, and everywhere Draco looked were plastic milk crates filled with records; balanced on top of boxes, lining the window sill, wedged up against the desk that was just visible under a record player, several dirty mugs and a collection of files. There was a stack of records balanced precariously on the desk chair, old by the looks of them, the card of the sleeves worn at the edges and a strong, musty, stale-tobacco odour emanated from them—much stronger than the aroma on the shop floor. It was so strong, Draco would have brought a hanky to his nose if he hadn’t thought the action would bring upon Harry’s ridicule.

“Wait here a sec,” Harry said, darting through another door which—if the layout was the same as Draco’s gallery—led up to the flat above the shop.

Left alone, Draco was drawn toward the record player on the desk as the record he’d heard playing from the shop floor finished, the stylus lifting off the black vinyl and automatically moving off to the side. He peered at the label on the centre of the record, but didn’t recognise the name. It wasn’t surprising, really. Harry’s music collection had been impossible to keep up with, new CDs turning up via owl every other day. He smiled at the memory of Hermione’s exasperation when Harry would spend an entire evening reading the booklets and artist notes that came with his music purchases, but would fall asleep within half an hour of opening his potions textbook. As he turned to investigate an odd-looking house plant nestled between two milk crates on the windowsill, a familiar record cover caught his eye. He ran his fingers over the cover remembering seeing it amongst others in Harry’s collection. _Pixies._ What a ridiculous name for a Muggle band. 

“Picked that lot up from guy whose dad spent the sixties, seventies, right up to the nineties buying up every record he found by the looks of it.” 

He startled at the proximity of Harry’s voice and he spun around to find Harry standing beside him, holding out a steaming mug of coffee. He took it with a muttered _thanks_ as Harry continued. “He died fairly recently and his son, who was clearing out his house, had no idea what to do with the record collection. So I bought it off him. Most of these milk crates came from him, and that’s not even the half of it, my living room is packed. It’s mental. I’m still going through it all. A lot of it is the usual, mass-produced stuff, and I’ve got quite a few in my own collection, like that one, but there’s some real rarities too. Worth a mint, even worn as some of the sleeves are. I’ll probably hold them back, save them for the real music lovers, you know? The ones who are going to really appreciate the music on the record, the history, people who are moved by it on a deep emotional level, not just mount it on a wall so they can look cool in front of their hipster mates.”

Momentarily caught off guard, Draco took a sip of his coffee to avoid responding to Harry’s impassioned monologue and was surprised to find that despite being instant, Harry had remembered the sugar and full fat milk. It flustered him more than he wanted to admit and for the first time since Harry moved in next door, Draco briefly forgot his annoyance and allowed himself to wonder where Harry had been, what he’d done in all the years he’d been away. Who had he been sharing his passions with all this time? Who had he been making coffee for? 

And what did it mean that Draco still remembered Harry’s coffee preferences—black, no sugar, a splash of cold water—too?

“Hey, you remember this one?” Harry set his mug carefully down on an empty sliver of desk and shuffled through the records on the chair, pulling one out and holding it out for Draco. There was a close up of a peacock with its tail fanned out on the cover and Draco couldn’t help his expression softening at the familiarity. He was transported back to the memory of a much younger Harry throwing one of those ghastly Muggle CDs at him—something he’d purchased on his latest trip to a Muggle record shop—and saying, “Couldn’t help myself, it reminded me of you.” And much to Draco’s surprise, it hadn’t been terrible. He thought he still had the CD somewhere, probably in that box of old Hogwarts things that he couldn’t bring himself to sort through. There were a lot of Harry things in there. 

“Want to give it a spin? We can hear it from the back if I wedge the door open.” He passed the record to Draco to hold as he put away the Pixies one, slotting it into a gap on a shelf Draco hadn’t even noticed behind all the boxes and milk crates. Taking the record back from Draco, he slid the vinyl out of the sleeve, holding it delicately with the tips of his fingers as his slotted it on the centre spindle. He pressed a couple of buttons, twisted a knob on the stereo, and the room filled with the aeroplane noise that marked the start of track one. 

Draco froze, lost to memory. They hadn’t had a CD player themselves, but Seamus had rigged one up in the eighth year common room which anyone was free to use. He remembered the secret smile Harry would share with him whenever he put on this album, the only ones who knew he’d bought it for Draco.

He looked around to say something about how his music tastes had evolved since they were younger only to find Harry had already disappeared out the back door, along with the treacle tart.

The second he stepped into the small back garden, Draco was accosted by a very excitable, black and white dog. He jumped up, smearing mud on Draco’s knees as he made strange snuffly-yapping sounds, his tail whipping back and forth with such force, his whole rear end wriggled. Apparently his hospitality yesterday was remembered.

Draco cried out in disgust and tried to step back out of reach, but the dog was relentless. “Kindly call off your beast. It’s slobbering all over my shoes. These are Berluti!”

“Settle down, Mortie,” Harry said, not sounding remotely sorry for the damage his dog was doing to a very expensive pair of shoes. “Come, boy.” 

Mortie didn’t come.

“I think he likes you,” Harry said, as he scooped Mortie up and settled him on his lap. The dog didn’t take his eyes off Draco, watching him unblinkingly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Well _I_ don’t like _him_. You need to train him or keep him on a leash.”

“He’s usually much better behaved—it must be your influence.” He grinned at Draco’s scoff. “Although… Hermione seems to think I’ve tempted fate giving him his name, so maybe he’s starting to live up to it.”

“Mortie?”

“Yeah, uh, that’s actually his nickname his full name is… Lord Voldemort. The second.”

Draco choked on the mouthful of coffee he’d been partway through swallowing “You named your dog after… after _him_?” he spluttered, once he could breathe again.

Harry shrugged, apparently unabashed. “Yeah, well, he was just a puppy when I found him. Someone had abandoned him and left him in a box, wrapped in a tatty old greenish blanket, his little pale face peeking out, squashed up nose… Just seemed kind of fitting.” 

Draco stared at the dog, now sprawled on his back on Harry’s lap as Harry absently rubbed the spot between his front legs. Only Harry would name a pet after the Dark Lord. He tentatively sat down on the white plastic chair beside Harry. 

He sipped his coffee, watching butterflies flutter between the few flowering shrubs that sat in the large terracotta pots lining the edge of the small patio—surely Neville’s doing—and wondered why he had followed Harry out here. What did he hope to achieve? 

Breaking the uneasy silence that had fallen between them, Harry used his wand to cut a couple of slices of tart and levitated a piece over to Draco.

“Thanks for this,” Harry said, wrapping his lips around a mouthful of tart, crumbs spraying out. “So good.”

Draco grimaced. “No need to try and eat it in one go. It’ll keep.”

Harry laughed and wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. “I’d forgotten how adorable your Patronus is, by the way,” he said, feeding a little bit of crust to Mortie.

“What?”

“Well, it was kind of hard to miss, chasing me around the park while I was panicking about your flagrant flouting of the statute and trying to find somewhere to hide away from Muggle eyes. I’m just saying, I’d forgotten how cute it is. A fox, right?”

Draco bristled and felt his cheeks heat. “A fennec, to be precise, but yes. A type of fox. They’re exceptionally well suited to their environment.” Harry’s reaction was why he so rarely cast a Patronus; why he’d never recast it in front of Harry after the first time. He’d hoped for something large and majestic, not a pint-sized fox which was more ear than body. Malfoys weren’t bred to be _cute._

“And so, so adorable. Merlin, has Rose seen it yet? She loves all that cutesy stuff, much to Hermione’s horror.” He laughed, but at Draco’s glare, made an effort to smooth his face out. “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. I…” The amusement dropped from his face, replaced by something more fond. He shook his head. “Remember all those lessons by the lake? Fuck. We tried for so long and then one day, boom! You did it.”

“How could I forget? You were a terrible teacher.”

“Hey! I’m a fantastic teacher! You were just very… distracting.” Harry smirked, and Draco had to look away in order to catch his breath. Damn those dimples. 

He cleared his throat and kept his gaze trained on Mortie, who had wriggled off of Harry’s lap and was now snuffling at the grass. “Well. Those were different times. I had different… priorities.”

“Clearly.” Harry chuckled, but Draco refused to look around at him. “Hey, so you never did tell me what your happy memory was.”

“And I’m not about to now, either.”

Displaying uncharacteristic maturity, Harry didn’t press Draco any further about it, changing the subject with ease. Draco couldn’t move on quite so easily though, his head stuck in the past.


	5. Chapter 5

_The wind whipped at Draco’s winter cloak, slapping the heavy fabric against his calves and tangling it around his ankles. It stung his cheeks, made a mess of his hair, but at least it kept most people inside—not that anyone would be out this close to curfew. He and Harry were the only ones foolish enough to attempt it. Small matters like school rules never seemed to bother Harry, and Draco was powerless to resist him. He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder. It felt like the forest was crowding around them, trying to draw them deeper, smother them, even though they were barely a few metres beyond the tree line, but Harry had assured him they’d be okay, so he had to take his word for it or risk looking like a coward. As long as he could still see the castle he would be fine. And Harry was here. Harry wouldn’t let anything happen to him… but surely they’d be heading back soon? It was such a pointless waste of time, standing here in the freezing cold when they could be doing something far … warmer. He wasn’t achieving _anything_ and Harry’s ceaseless optimism was starting to wear him down. _

_“Let’s give it another go. You’re so close.” Harry was watching him, glasses glinting in the last remnants of the sunset, an infuriating smile on his lips. Couldn’t he see the futility of what they were attempting?_

_“I can’t do it. This is so stupid!” he cried, fighting the urge to stamp his foot._

_“Hey, come on, it’s not stupid, and you _can_ do it,” Harry urged, stepping into Draco’s space and smoothing a hand down his arm. “You just need the right memory.”_

_“For fuck’s sake!” Draco shook off the contact, sneering. The last thing he needed right now was sympathy. “You think I don’t know that? You’ve told me again and again and _again._ I clearly have no happy memories. Everything has been tainted by _him_. I’m not… there’s not enough good in me. I—” He blinked, furious tears burning in his eyes and frustrating him further._

_“Draco…” Harry reached out again, his hand hovering over Draco’s arm again before he appeared to reconsider, letting it fall limply to his side. “Let’s take a break, try tomorrow.”_

_Draco sighed. Looked back up at the castle. Lights were blinking on in some windows, and off in others as the building moved from evening into night. He knew Harry was only trying to help, but he couldn’t understand what it was like, to fail again and again. Everything came so easily to him; defeater of the wizarding world’s greatest evil, forgiver of sins… Draco didn’t deserve him and it was only a matter of time before Harry realised that. He should never have come back to Hogwarts. No one wanted him here. He should be in Azkaban with his father; which is probably exactly where he would be headed if anyone found out what he was doing to Harry, what he was letting Harry do to him… He— _

_“Draco, please, I can see what you’re doing, so don’t. Don’t go down that route.” Harry cupped Draco’s face and brought their foreheads together, his thumbs wiping moisture from Draco’s face—had he been crying? _Fuck._ “You’re trying, okay? You deserve a second chance. Don’t give up.”_

_Draco leant into the touch for a second, taking strength from the force of Harry’s belief, before pulling away. It wasn’t clear whether he’d meant he shouldn’t give up on the charm or on them, or on … on everything. He took a breath, shrugged off the negativity clinging to his shoulders. He thought about Harry, about everything he’d done for Draco, the way he’d stood up for him against other students, his capacity for forgiveness. Harry thought he was worth something, Harry thought he deserved a chance. He closed his eyes, thought of green eyes staring into his as they slow danced to an obscure Muggle song Harry was humming, thought of deceptively strong arms wrapped around his waist, the tickle of warm breath against his lips as they drew impossibly close, that first moment full of such anticipation and hope. He pointed his wand into the depths of the forest, the shaft trembling in his sweaty grip. He heard Harry draw in a breath—it felt like the entire forest drew in a breath—and shouted _Expecto Patronum_ with as much force as he could muster. _

_He couldn’t open his eyes. He’d given it everything; he couldn’t witness another failure._

_Then._

_“You did it! Draco! It’s… It’s… I don’t know what the fuck it is, but look!”_

_Harry’s hand was on his shoulder shaking him, and the other one was pointing at the silvery large-eared fox gambolling between the tree trunks at the edge of the forest._

_It was faint, but it was there. “I did it,” he breathed, scarcely able to take his eyes off the animal. A fennec. A small, but perfectly formed fennec. _

_After a minute or so the silvery form dissipated and Draco turned to Harry, breathless in his excitement._

_“What memory did you use?” Harry asked, reaching out to tuck Draco’s hair behind his ear._

_Draco grinned, shook his head. “Not important,” he murmured and crashed their lips together. He could never tell Harry. He didn’t want to think about what it might mean that Harry Potter was his happy memory, but he _knew_ Harry would try and overthink it, would want to talk about it, mark it with an anniversary or something and everything would be ruined. It was better he remained silent. The kiss was a good distraction, though. Harry leaned into it and they stumbled back, deeper into the shadows at the edge of the forest, out of sight from any curious eyes, Draco’s earlier fear forgotten._

_When Harry’s back hit a tree, Draco sunk to his knees, hands at Harry’s flies, freeing him from his trousers before either of them could reconsider the wisdom of exposing certain parts of their anatomy to the frigid air. He pressed his face into Harry’s groin, breathing him in, before taking him into his mouth, sucking him to full hardness. He could never verbalise what Harry meant to him, but he could show him. _

* 

Draco was definitely not sulking. He was seething, perhaps, but not sulking. Once again no genuine customers could get into his gallery thanks to the crowd outside Harry’s shop. They were here for his stupid Grand Opening, all swarming around his shop front like wasps on Butterbeer, desperate for a look at how far the Saviour had fallen, or something like that. Pushing and shoving to get to the meagre selection of nibbles Harry had no doubt laid out for the occasion. Wandering into his exclusive, high-end gallery and asking ludicrous questions such as _‘Uh, do you do picture framing for record covers?’_ and _Do you sell band posters?’_ or his personal favourite, _‘Can I borrow a quill so I can get Harry Potter’s autograph?’_ In the end, he’d just locked up for the day. He’d had his fill of starry-eyed nitwits mooning over the Twat Who Lived Next Door. And so, he had ended up sitting on the back step of his gallery, looking at the small, bare patio and wondering why he hadn’t bothered to get chairs for it, or even a few plants—why had Neville never got _him_ plants? A clear display of favouritism if he ever saw one. And decidedly _not_ sulking.

Harry had been so insistent about him coming, but had he noticed Draco wasn’t there? Had he thought to pop round and check if Draco was okay? For all his pestering and visitations and overtures of friendship and forgiveness and moving on and _blah blah blah,_ he clearly didn’t give a shit if Draco was there or not. Draco had actually toyed with the idea of showing his face, thought maybe he could pop in for a bit over lunch since he’d foolishly thought Harry would appreciate it, but when he peered out of his window, he’d seen them all standing there—Blaise, Neville, George, Ron, Hermione—laughing and joking with Harry, and it struck him that none of them would care whether he showed up or not. With Harry back, the group dynamic was in upheaval. There was only room for one of them, Harry or Draco, and his so-called friends had made it abundantly clear whose side they had picked. Bloody traitors, the lot of them. He expected it off the Gryffindors, but Blaise? That stung. 

There was a loud _whoosh bang!_ signalling the start of another round of Weasley-brand fireworks. Draco glared at the glittering red lion that prowled through the sky above the rooftops. Show-offs. He could go inside, but the noise, for some reason, was even greater in there, so outside it was.

Through the open door, he heard his Floo roar to life and dropped his head to his knees, kicking himself for not having the sense to lock it.

“Draco? Draco!” Blaise. Fan-fucking-tastic. “Ah, thought I’d find you here, you mopey old sod.” He stepped into the garden and stood next to where Draco was sat, nudging him in the shoulder with his knee. “Bit old for one of your sulks, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sulking. I’m planning my new garden. Bugger off.”

“You hate gardening.”

“That just shows how much you know me. What are you doing here? Won’t Potter miss you kissing his arse?”

“Now, now, Draco. We both know the only arse these lips touch is Neville’s. Jealous?”

“I hate you. If you only came here to supply me with unnecessary, and deeply scarring, mental images, you can fuck right off.”

Blaise sighed and though he didn’t look around Draco could just tell he was rolling his eyes. eyes. “I actually came to check up on you, say hi. You know, like friends do?”

“Oh!” Draco clutched a hand to his chest. “You mean like you’ve done for me since Harry came back…Oh, wait.”

“So it’s my fault now that you’ve rejected every single invite Nev and I have sent you?”

Draco glowered at the patch of scrubby grass at his feet. “Yes, well, maybe I’d be in a more sociable mood if I was able to get more sleep.”

He felt Blaise crouch beside him, his thigh pressing against Draco’s arm. “Is everything okay? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” There was a loud bang-crackle as more fireworks were released and the crowd whooped. 

“Fine. Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.” He stood up with a pained groan. “Oh, by the way, I brought you this.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco watched him put a plate of food on the ground beside him. It was piled high with assorted canapes—the sort of mass-produced rubbish people with no taste bought when they put no thought into their party planning—and one sodding apple turnover.

“Delightful,” Draco muttered. 

“You could always come and choose your own food. Harry was asking after you, you know. For some reason, he’s not put off by your grumpy twat routine.”

“It’s not a routine.”

“Right, yeah. You’re just a grumpy twat. Well, for some reason, he likes that.” 

“Is it my problem that he can’t take a hint?” Honestly, what was he supposed to say to that? 

Blaise huffed out a laugh. “Okay, whatever. I’m going to go back to our friends. Feel free to join us.”

Draco heard the Floo flare and then finally there was silence again. Well, as silent as it ever got in central London with the additional irritation of _someone_ having a party next door. The _Silencio_ he’d cast earlier must be wearing off because he could make out the thrum of a heavy bass line pulsing through the air, just loud enough for Draco to be aware of it, and there was the unmistakable buzz of many conversations happening at once. He’d need to have another word to Harry about noise cancelling charms—why should it be all Draco’s responsibility? Why should he be the one to constantly drain his magical core just to get a little peace and quiet? He raised his wand to renew the charm, because fuck if he was going to go round there and say anything now, with all his friends and acquaintances watching and judging, but then he heard another noise. A wet sort of slurping noise, coming from just over his shoulder. 

He cautiously turned his head, wand ready, half expecting to find a demonic creature about to suck his brains out through his ear, but what he found instead was Mortie, licking the turnover and delicately taking one corner in his teeth as he tried to sneak it off the plate.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” 

Mortie paused in his slurping and looked up at Draco with his large, bulbous brown eyes, one eyebrow twitching as he cocked his head to the side. 

Draco chuckled softly at the dog’s ridiculous expression, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. “Had to escape, eh?” 

Mortie snorted.

“I don’t blame you. Hideous rabble, aren’t they.” Draco reached out and tentatively scratched Mortie’s head causing the little dog to yip and wag his tail. He tried to pull his hand back, but Mortie whined and nudged into it, licking his fingers.

“Wonderful.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the slobber from his hand. “Someone needs to teach you some manners,” he chided lightly. “But what did I expect from a dog raised by Harry?” He chuckled to himself, reaching out again to pet Mortie.

_Wuff._

“I suppose you can stay. Just for a bit. But we’ll have to teach you how to properly comport yourself. And as far as I’m concerned, your name is Mortimer. Is that okay?”

_Wuff._

“Good boy.” Draco continued to pet Mortimer while the dog wolfed down food that was probably highly inappropriate. He wasn’t surprised Harry had found himself a dog. He was actually more surprised he’d only got the one. Not that he wanted Harry to acquire a whole pack… but if he did, it would be… unsurprising.

Mortimer turned out to not be that bad a companion, and Draco found himself appreciating the company. Mortimer didn’t expect him to act like a grown-up, or be nice, and he didn’t judge him for ordering pizza to be delivered so he wouldn’t have to go outside and risk running into anyone when he was so… not fragile. Volatile. He was volatile. He could snap and say something terribly rude to one of Harry’s guests and that wouldn’t be very professional of him, would it? 

So Draco and Mortimer sat upstairs and watched game shows on the telly and yelled (and barked) at the stupid contestants for the night, and once or twice Draco forgot he was hiding and actually had a nice time. It didn’t last though, eventually there was a knock at the door.

Looking up from the telly and Mortimer, splayed out on his back on Draco’s lap, snoring gently, it was suddenly obvious the party was over. There was a distinct lack of noise reverberating through the walls. The knock came again. 

Draco scooped up the dog and rushed downstairs, pretty sure he could guess who it was, being that he’d become Mortimer’s default place of escape, and Harry was possibly a responsible enough a pet owner to notice his dog was missing.

“Hi,” Harry said when Draco opened the door. He was wearing… well. It had sleeves for starters. A tight black band shirt that didn’t hide any of Harry’s toned physique, and a surprisingly tidy pair of black jeans with boots, nice ones. Not high street store-bought, by the looks of it. Nicer than that. The soft green cardigan was the kicker though. It made Harry’s eyes shine, even in the dim light on the street, and the halo of (was it cashmere?) begged to be touched. It was… problematic.

“Your dog,” Draco said. Shit. That wasn’t a real sentence. “I looked after him.”

“Oh, thanks.” Harry looked falsely cheerful. There was something far more affecting under it. “You, er. You didn’t come.”

“I didn’t feel quite up to it. Sorry.” Draco held out the dog, who whined and wriggled in his grip.

“Right. Okay. Well. Hope you’re feeling alright now. Thanks for looking after Mortie.”

“No problem.”

“We, er... that is, some of us are having a drink. Blaise and Neville are still here, and George. Hermione took the kids home but Ron’s staying for one. Do you want to come have a beer?”

“I shouldn’t, it’s almost bed time. But thank you.”

“Okay. Well. Drop by the shop and have a look soon?”

“Of course. Goodnight, Potter.”

He looked sad still, and Draco felt terribly guilty, but at least he should be able to sleep in his bed tonight without the soundtrack of Harry’s love life playing in his ear. The only thing was, he thought as he climbed the stairs, was that he missed the dog. Just a little bit.


	6. Chapter 6

_Harry was pressed tightly against Draco’s side. It was a squeeze, trying to fit their now-adult bodies, side-by-side, into a single bed, but they were giving it their best effort. Why McGonagall couldn’t have sprung for some larger beds for the eighth years, Draco wasn’t sure, but he intended to bring it up with her as soon as an appropriate opportunity arose—not that it would do too much good since they would be leaving in a few months, but any future Greg-sized students would surely be thankful of a bit more space. He’d grown out of the Slytherin dorm beds sometime during fifth year._

_It was rare that Draco and Harry had managed to find time alone together during the day, but it was Hogsmeade weekend, so pretty much everyone who was able had headed into the village to shop or loiter or load up on sugary snacks and drinks. Draco had told Blaise and Pansy he couldn’t be arsed with Hogsmeade, and they’d accepted that reasoning with such ease, that he suspected they both had plans of their own that neither wanted further prying into. Harry, idiot that he was, had told his clique that he was staying behind to do homework, so of course Granger had tried to impose herself on that, along with a stern line of questioning about what homework he was doing and why he’d left it so long. It was only Ron’s intervention, something hissed in Granger’s ear that turned her cheeks pink and stalled her words, which caused her reluctant acquiescence. Draco had watched the whole thing with thinly veiled amusement as it played out in the common room—Harry’s spluttering excuses, Ron’s impatience, Hermione’s disapproval—and he had considered interjecting and explaining just what he and Harry intended to do while everyone was out, but he held his tongue. Neither of them was ready to make whatever it was between them public… or, more accurately, Draco wasn’t keen and Harry was happy to go at his pace. Coming out would complicate things. People would demand labels that he didn’t want to define, and news would almost certainly reach his parents, which would seriously impact on his future… _

_But it was all moot anyway because they could never be anything more; could never be real. It was foolish to allow his thoughts to wander down that track._

_“Hey, what are you thinking?” Harry asked, nudging him with a bony elbow._

_Draco frowned. He doubted Harry wanted the truth. “Nothing.” _

_“Come on, I know that face,” he said, poking Draco in the cheek. “That’s not your nothing face. That’s your ‘deep-in-thought-about-life-the-universe-and-everything’ face.” _

_A reluctant smile crept across Draco’s lips and he made an unsuccessful grab for Harry’s hand. “I don’t know.” He sighed and tilted his head to look at Harry who had shifted onto his side, one hand supporting his head, the other—the one that had been poking him in the face--now resting on Draco’s chest. “I’m just thinking about what McGonagall said, I suppose.”_

_They’d had their careers chats that week, and McGonagall had politely listened while Draco parroted the plan that had been drilled into him since he was a boy—steady job at the Ministry, get married, produce an heir, invest wisely—and then handed him a selection of leaflets for various apprenticeships which she thought might be of interest, and which bore no relation to anything he’d spent the last fifteen minutes explaining. He’d meant it as a lie, to distract Harry from prying into his thoughts too deeply, but he supposed it was the chat with McGonagall that had got him thinking about his future, and how there was no place in it for Harry._

_“How did it go?”_

_“The usual. I spoke, she didn’t listen, gave me a handful of leaflets.” Draco shrugged. “I already know what I’m doing so it was all rather pointless.”_

_“Oh, yeah. I guess.” Harry distractedly traced around Draco’s shirt buttons._

_Draco hummed noncommittally, the gentle movement of Harry’s fingertip on his shirt having a surprisingly soporific effect on him. His eyelids felt heavier and heavier as all the late nights spent studying caught up with him._

_“I mean, it’s the same for me, I suppose,” Harry said, the proximity of his voice startling Draco out of the light doze he’d slipped into. “Robards already said I have a spot in the training academy, so…” He raised one shoulder in a lopsided shrug._

_Draco blinked, momentarily disoriented, until he remembered what they’d sort of been talking about. It was the first time they’d actually spoken about what might happen after Hogwarts, and Draco realised he’d always just assumed that Harry wanted to be an Auror—it was such a _Harry_ career—chasing down bad guys, serving up justice, helping people, but he couldn’t help but notice Harry seemed less than enthused._

_“Do you… not want to be an Auror then?” he asked carefully. He didn’t want to pry too deeply; he didn’t really care what Harry did. Whatever it was between them, whatever he might hope it could be…. It wasn’t. It was temporary, and this… this cuddling in bed was nothing but a break between blow jobs, and he’d do well to remember that. _

_But it was hard to keep his resolve when Harry looked so lost, so dejected._

_“I dunno.” Harry shrugged. “It’s what everyone expects of me, what I’ve always said I wanted, and I guess it might be cool. But…”_

_“But?”_

_The words came out in a rush as Harry stared fixedly at Draco’s shoulder. “I’m tired of fighting and chasing and being who people want me to be.” He sighed, looked up to meet Draco’s gaze. “I want to just be Harry for a change, not Harry Potter: the Boy Who Lived.” _

_That… that was not what Draco was expecting to hear, and he was temporarily taken aback. Had Harry told anyone else this? Why was he telling him? They weren’t friends, not in the traditional sense, and he’d worked hard to keep it that way. He and Harry were just acquaintances who fucked around and gave each other mind-blowing orgasms, not close friends who opened up and shared secrets. He was torn. On the one hand, he was excited. It hinted at the possibility of a deepening trust developing between them. But on the other, he was terrified. He was already dangerously close to depending on Harry; if he lowered his defences any further, how would he be able to break things off when the time came? _

_“Well… what do you want to do?”_

_Harry looked down at his hand, still tracing lines over Draco’s chest, and his voice when eventually spoke was small, uncertain. “I kind of thought… I don’t know.”_

_Draco held his tongue. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing and have Harry retreat from whatever confession was brewing. Instead, he snaked an arm beneath Harry, wrapping it around his back and tugging him closer._

_His patience was rewarded as Harry sighed into the embrace._

_“You’re probably gonna think it’s stupid, but… I kind of want to move to the countryside, like, some village in the middle of nowhere and, I dunno, open an animal sanctuary or run a farm. Get a load of dogs and just… live. Doing whatever the fuck I want to, not what I have to, not what people expect me to do.”_

_The words resonated deeply within Draco. Living. Not for other people, but for himself. A life away from familial and societal obligations._

_“That sounds…” It sounded amazing, if he was being completely honest with himself, and he could totally see Harry settling into that kind of life. Draco could even imagine giving it a go himself. Would Harry let him tag along? Would he want Draco there as he carved out this life for himself? But no, even if Harry _did_ want Draco there, he couldn’t do it. And he should know better than to let himself get carried away by such fancies. “It’s a bloody ridiculous idea, Potter.”_

_Harry’s jaw dropped open, hurt flashing across his face before he noted the playful smile on Draco’s face. “Fuck you,” he said with an awkward laugh. “That’s the last time I try to share anything meaningful with you.”_

_“Be sure that it is. I want you for your cock, not your words,” Draco said, only half-joking, to lighten the mood and steer them back to more pleasurable pursuits. There was still a hint of uncertainty on Harry’s face, but he laughed anyway, and Draco added, “I can see it, though. Harry Potter, the boy who lived to turn feral. Sitting in a ramshackle hut, halfway up a mountain in deepest Wales, a small army of dogs gathered around your ankles.”_

_“That’s the dream, Draco.” He rolled onto his back, tucking one arm behind his head and stared up at the canopy. Draco instantly missed the warm weight of Harry’s hand, the teasing stroke of Harry’s fingertip dancing across his chest, and forced himself not to chase after it. _

_“Well, I’m not going to stop you. The hairy, mountain-man look isn’t exactly my cup of tea, but I’m sure someone will find you endearing.”_

_“Thanks. Maybe I’ll do it. I’ll prove to you that mountain men can be sexy too.” _

_Draco swallowed thickly. He could feel Harry’s gaze upon him, could just imagine the smirk on his face, the glint in his eye. “If— if you think I’m visiting you in your shack for any sort of naked time…”_

_“Not a problem, I’ll just come and visit you in your swanky London town house. Maybe for my monthly bath. Washing in a stream will only get me so clean.”_

_“Good lord, Potter. No, thank you. I have standards. What would the neighbours think?”_

_The conversation thankfully drifted onto lighter topics, and Draco kicked himself for missing the opportunity to say something about his future plans, about his need to fulfil his duty and rebuild the reputation of the Malfoy name, but then Harry’s hands were all over him, sliding down his chest and beneath the waistband of his boxers and it no longer seemed important. There was no way Harry didn’t know they had an expiry date, as much as Draco sometimes wished that wasn’t true. The image of Harry with his pack of mongrels, relaxed and happy, was one that stuck with Draco for a long time; long after they’d gone their separate ways; long after Harry had disappeared from the wizarding world and cut off contact. Over the years, Draco had often wondered whether he had been able to live out that fantasy, and the small part of him that didn’t hate Harry for what happened between them, hoped that maybe he was finally happy._

*

Over the next few weeks, Harry’s shop went from strength to strength. Draco could barely admit it to himself, let alone anyone else, but he found he was mildly impressed that Harry had managed to not only pull it off, but thrive. He’d had no idea there was such a gap in the market. It was still early days, though. There was still a chance it could blow up spectacularly in Harry’s face… although Draco found with each passing day that this thought filled him with less and less joy. And by the end of the first month, he realised he actually wanted Harry to succeed, a realisation that didn’t sit comfortably beside the part of him that was still sore about having Harry thrust back into his life.

He wanted to stay mad at Harry, wanted to want his shop to fail so he’d have to give up and move away, but it was hard. Not least because rather than hurt his sales, the presence of Harry’s shop actually increased his profit. He’d double- then triple-checked the invoices _just to make sure,_ but there was no denying the correlation between the opening of _Sirius Sounds_ and the increase in his sales. Apparently, the same people who like to buy vinyl records and Muggle CD’s, also liked to buy prints of paintings—he’d had to double the order from his suppliers, and now had plans to increase the range he offered. Harry, on one of his many unprompted visits had even suggested a few famous album covers that would, according to him, make very saleable posters. 

All in all, being Harry’s neighbour was far from the disaster he’d envisaged and aside from a few notable Harry-centred differences, Draco’s life settled back into its old, comfortable routine. Okay, so he had to keep returning Mortie, who kept turning up, but he didn’t even mind him that much any more, and his customers seemed to enjoy his presence, curled up in a little bed beside the front counter that Draco had transfigured from a cushion.

In the first week his shop was open, Harry popped into Eltanin a couple of times—for what exactly, Draco couldn’t be sure—but it soon became normal for him to show up every day, sometimes twice. He was more persistent than his idiot dog. By the end of the second week, Draco didn’t even try to kick him out. He let Harry sit on his desk, swinging his legs back and forth like a teenage boy, chatting away about this or that. Draco found out all sorts about him just by shutting up and letting him get on with it—how he’d fled the country after a breakdown; how he’d visited Charlie in Romania for a bit before backpacking around Europe; how he’d somehow ended up in San Francisco working at a record store; how he’d smuggled Mortie into the country with Hermione’s reluctant help. As much as he tried to resist, Draco could feel himself falling. 

He realised pretty early on that Harry was flirting with him—bringing him cakes and coffee, laughing and joking with him, complimenting his tie—he’d have to be stupid to not see what was going on, but he wouldn’t let himself get taken in by it. He _knew_ Harry was busy every few nights with one or more partners. Where he found all these partners, Draco had no idea, but on one particular sleep-deprived morning, he’d outright asked Harry if he was seeing someone, and Harry had looked at him like he was stupid and denied it, so it was obviously a series of casual hook ups. Draco wasn’t going to add his own name to that list. Not again. It was almost funny, how Harry seemed happy to chat about anything—ex-lovers, brushes with Muggle law enforcement, misguided experimentation—but he never once mentioned anything about his nightly activities, even when Draco dropped hints about knowing exactly what was going on. 

Throughout all of Harry’s constant interruptions, both to his working day and to his sleep, Draco continued to butter up Fabio, sending owl after schmoozing owl, finalising arrangements, until one day, the letter he’d been waiting for arrived. Fabio had settled on a date to visit. _Finally._

“You look happy,” Harry said, grinning as he handed Draco the small paper bag and set two coffees on his desk. “Morning, Heph,” he added with a nod towards the painting.

Draco could barely stand to drag his eyes from the crisp parchment in his hands, leaf envelope laying discarded to one side. “It’s happening. It’s actually fucking happening.”

“Yeah?” Harry perched on his usual spot on the desk, now permanently clear of paperwork after Draco got sick of him moving things around or knocking things over with his arse. “Go on then, I’ll bite. What’s happening?” He pulled a danish from the paper bag and took a bite, managing to get crumbs everywhere.

“Fabio. He’s coming!”

“Fabi— oh! That artist you don’t stop talking about.”

“I do so stop talking about him. When was the last time I said anything about him?”

“Um… just now?”

“Oh, fuck off. You know what I meant. And I’m sorry if my getting a little excited about something that could completely change the course of my career bores you. Are you feeling left out now the spotlight is on someone else? Shall we go back to talking about your many, many school boy achievements again? Maybe we can go to the charity shop around the corner, grab a copy of your unofficial biography, and pick a chapter to act out here in the gallery. What do you think?”

Harry rolled his eyes and chucked a raisin across the desk, laughing at Draco’s indignant squawk. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just, I rarely see you get this excited about anything. It’s cute.”

Draco ducked his head to hide the blush staining his cheeks, inwardly cursing the stupid part of his brain that still went a bit squiffy whenever Harry complimented him. “Fuck. Off. Don’t you have somewhere else you should be? Assaulting the unwashed masses with that racket you call music, perhaps?”

“Dirk’s manning the counter. You know that. And besides, you like my taste in music. You were always asking to borrow—”

“Yes, well I liked a lot of things back then that I no longer care for,” Draco said, cutting Harry off before he could drag them into another walk down memory lane. For someone who claimed to have moved on, Harry spent an awful lot of time dredging up their shared past.

Harry’s cheery expression faltered, but only for a second and Draco would have missed it if he hadn’t glanced up just then. “Ouch.” he joked, quickly plastering a smile back on his face. It seemed more strained than before, though. “So, your artist crush is coming to visit? Are you gonna dress up pretty? Get your hair done?”

“What? What’s wrong with my— Oh for— Why are you still here?”

“I come for the snacks, but I stay for the delightful company.” Harry grinned. There was white icing on his top lip from the danish which Draco could not stop staring at as soon as he noticed. It remained there, a white, glistening smudge, as Harry carefully sucked each of his fingers clean, taunting Draco. He’d never get used to watching Harry eat. He would somehow manage to get crumbs everywhere anytime he ate anything, and then would lick—_lick!_— his fingers clean. Had he never heard of serviettes? Or even better, a sink? He was like some weird mix of toddler and cat, and yet, as much as it horrified him, Draco could not tear his eyes away.

“What? Is there—” Harry swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, looking not the least bit ashamed when he spotted the icing that had transferred. “So, anyway, about that crush…” Harry said, an amused twinkle in his eye as he sucked the spot of icing off his hand.

Draco tore his gaze away. He wasn’t going to let Harry distract him with his sticky fingers and incorrigible manners. “He is _not_ my crush, Potter. Don’t be so fucking juvenile. He’s an extremely influential artist and if I can secure an exclusivity deal with him, it could rocket the Eltanin brand into worldwide renown—Muggle and Magical. I can’t afford for you to fuck this up for me.”

“Me? How am I going to fuck things up?”

He sat back and carefully folded his arms over his chest, pointedly raking his eyes over Harry’s body. He was now sat fully on the corner of Draco’s desk, legs swinging out beneath him and looking more like a truant schoolboy than a thirty-five year old business owner.

“Oooh, okay. You want me to stay away when he’s here? Worried I might—” Harry raised his hands and made air quotes “—_ruin your aesthetic_?”

“Amongst other things, yes. So if you could refrain from popping in on the tenth, and perhaps keep your beast under control too, then I’d be much obliged.”

Harry made a face and parroted back _’much obliged’_ in a horrible approximation of Draco’s accent. “Okay, okay, no problem,” he said in response to Draco’s glare. “Me and Mortie know when we’re not wanted.” He hung one arm over the side of the chair and scratched Mortie behind his ear. It was a testament to how used Draco had become to the dog’s presence that he hadn’t even registered him before then.

“Mortimer’s presence is preferable to yours. I daresay he projects a more professional image than—” He waved a hand in Harry’s direction, “—whatever this is.”

“I’ll have you know that this Dead To Me t-shirt is a limited edition, hand printed by their drummer.” He smoothed a hand down his front, both straightening out the graphic—something involving a couple of disembodied arms, an eye, and some squiggles—and brushing crumbs to the floor.

“In that case, perhaps they should have stuck to drumming.”

A slurping noise caught Draco’s attention and he looked down to see Mortie busily cleaning his balls. 

Harry jerked his thumb in Mortie’s direction. “ If that’s what’s considered ‘professional’ these days, then I’m sure I could give it a go. My flexibility isn’t what it used to be but—” He started to bend forward.

Draco almost choked as a barrage of mental images assaulted him “Harry!” he yelped, throwing a quill at his head. “Out! And your dog too. And please, _please_ do not fuck this up for me.”

Harry laughed and unfolded himself from the chair. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to scare off your precious _Fabio._” 

Draco watched them leave, a sour feeling curdling in his gut. He had a horrible feeling that something terrible was going to happen, despite Harry’s assurances that he’d behave. The meeting was too important—there was no way the universe would let things go without a hitch. Life just wasn’t that kind to him.

“Wait, Harry,” Draco shouted as Harry pulled the door open. “I’d, um. I’d appreciate if you could… have a quiet night in, the night before Fabio arrives. Or if you really must scratch that itch, perhaps consider doing it elsewhere.” 

“What?” Harry screwed up his face in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Draco hastily backtracked. He didn’t know why he’d said anything. Harry’s night time activities were the Erumpent in the room neither of them ever mentioned. He had to know Draco could hear… but if he didn’t… If he admitted now that he could hear Harry fucking, Harry would know Draco had been listening to him since he moved in and hadn’t said anything, which would make Draco sound like a pervert. 

He didn’t want Harry to think he enjoyed listening to him fuck his way around the eligible population of London. Merlin, no. The horror.

“I… I just meant…uh, please keep… _noise_ to a minimum. All noise. Any noise. You stomp around your flat like it’s done you some injustice, and I really would like a full eight hours of undisturbed sleep before my meeting.” He mentally congratulated himself for his quick thinking.

Harry’s brow was still furrowed—surely he knew what Draco was talking about; he wasn’t an idiot, despite outward appearances—but after a few minutes of scrutiny, while Draco wished for the floor to swallow him up, he shrugged. “Sure, whatever you want. Come on, boy.” He patted his leg to encourage Mortie to follow and walked out of the door with a half-hearted wave.

*

Draco cast an assessing gaze over his gallery, but everything was exactly how it was supposed to be, the same as it had been five minutes ago, and five minutes before that, and five minutes before that… He fished out his pocket watch and cursed under his breath when he saw the time. There was still half an hour before Fabio was scheduled to arrive. Thirty minutes. Eighteen-hundred seconds. He could do this. He took a deep breath to tighten his hold over the nervous excitement that threatened to erupt into panic at the slightest provocation and forced his attention back to the auction catalogue that lay open on the desk before him. He thought he had a fairly good measure of the man from their recent correspondence so he was confident he could win him round and talk him into a contract, but he couldn’t shake that feeling of impending doom; a feeling enhanced by the little voice inside his head that liked to eat away at his confidence by repeating _‘Malfoys don’t deserve good things,’_ over and over.

It didn’t help his overall mood that Harry had blatantly ignored his request to keep noise to a minimum last night (despite constant reminders that the meeting would be happening today), so Draco wasn’t nearly as rested as he wanted to be. 

All in all, he was feeling a bit shit. 

He checked his pocket watch again. Twenty-seven minutes. 

_Fuck._ His head hit the desk with a hollow _thunk_ as he slumped forward, composure momentarily forgotten.

“We appear to have a visitor,” Hephaestus said in a stage whisper. 

Draco whipped his head up and his eyes went straight for the door. It couldn’t be Fabio, could it? There were still…eighteen minutes before he was due to arrive. He’d not heard anyone enter, but perhaps he’d blacked out from the stress—Merlin, _had_ he blacked out? But no, the gallery was blissfully empty. He looked at Hephaestus, an eyebrow raised in question, and found the old man glaring pointedly over Draco’s shoulder. 

That was when he heard the familiar rasping pant that had become so ingrained in his day-to-day life, it had somehow escaped his notice. 

“Bloody animal,” he groaned. “Nice to see Harry’s promises are as reliable as ever.” 

Mortimer stared up at him, head cocked to one side, tongue hanging out, and his tail beating a steady rhythm on the floor now that he had Draco’s attention. Draco sighed. He could either take the dog around to Harry’s himself and risk missing Fabio’s arrival, or he could send a note to Harry asking him to collect him and risk Harry turning up after Fabio arrived. Merlin, he couldn’t let that happen—Harry could fuck up months of work with one ill-timed dick joke. He couldn’t take the risk. 

Grumbling at his own misfortune, Draco grabbed the dog lead he now kept in the top drawer of his desk and secured it to Mortimer’s collar “You’re as irritating as your owner, you know that, right?” he said, straightening up. “Come on, you ratbag. Heel.” Mortimer yapped once and trotted cheerfully at his side as Draco lead him out of the gallery. One day, Draco thought, he’d work out how the dog was sneaking in. But that mystery would have to wait until after Fabio’s visit.

When Draco strode purposefully into Sirius Sounds, he immediately spotted Harry, perched on the stool behind the counter, eating what looked like cereal from a saucepan—a saucepan! Did the man have no shame? The shop was quiet, with only a couple of people browsing, but one customer—one of those skinny-legged, bearded, hipster types that frequented Harry’s shop—was chatting to Harry, his hands waving expressively in the air. Whatever he was saying, Harry appeared to be engrossed because he didn’t so much as glance in Draco’s direction even when the door jangled shut behind him. 

Draco cleared his throat and hovered awkwardly in the middle of the shop floor, but it wasn’t until Mortimer yapped, straining impatiently at the lead, that Harry looked up.

His face lit up when he saw Draco, smile broad and welcoming, and Draco temporarily forgot his ire as he was flooded with warmth. Any pleasure was quickly displaced by disgust when Harry set his saucepan on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Draco didn’t even bother to suppress the shudder. 

“Draco! Hi!” Harry said, stepping around the counter. When he spotted Mortimer, he winced. “Oh… shit. Sorry. He got out again?” 

At least the idiot showed some remorse.

“Please control your beast, this is the _third time_ this week he’s turned up in my gallery, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how important today is for me.”

A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye reminded Draco of the presence of the customer Harry had been talking too. He glared at him, but the man made no effort to hide his interest in his and Harry’s brief interaction and even raised an eyebrow when he caught Draco’s look. Draco bristled. Who did this man think he was, boldly watching a private conversation between two business men? He could have at least feigned interest in something else while he eavesdropped. Amateur.

Harry was oblivious to the sudden tension, kneeling down and scooping Mortimer into his arms. “I’m so sorry Draco. I really have no idea how he gets out.” He scratched that spot behind Mortimer’s ear that always turned him to goo, and then pressed his face into his fur, murmuring garbled words of praise while the dog slobbered all over his face. 

It was disgusting, and the thought of Mortimer doing the same to him made Draco feel slightly sick, but he couldn’t help the smile that tugged his lips because as ridiculous as it was, it was also kind of endearing how much Harry doted on that bloody dog. 

“Draco Malfoy?” 

Oh, right. The nosey customer was still there. “And who might you be?” Draco sneered, casting a disapproving eye over the man’s horrendous outfit—a purple paisley shirt over lemon-yellow skinny jeans, and a pair of paint-spattered Birkenstocks? Draco would happily _Obliviate_ himself to removing the offending image from his mind.

“Fabio,” the customer replied. 

The sneer froze on Draco’s face and his stomach lurched as if someone had suddenly tilted the shop floor. He could feel his pulse throbbing throughout his body, and all his clothes felt too tight, slowly suffocating him. But it had to be a different Fabio, surely. This was nothing more than some horrific coincidence; the universe having a laugh at his expense. _His_ Fabio wouldn’t be in Harry’s shop, would he? Draco opened his mouth to say something, anything, to try and excuse the fact that he’d just been mentally hexing the man—if indeed it was his Fabio—but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate. 

“You _are_ Draco Malfoy, no?” Fabio asked, peering at him.

Draco nodded jerkily and Fabio’s face cleared.

“Ah! Wonderful! A pleasure to finally meet you, Draco.” Fabio said, extending his hand, a slightly bemused smile on his lips. 

Draco fumbled to grasp the proffered hand and greet Fabio appropriately so he could perhaps regain some of his lost dignity. What the fuck was Fabio doing in Harry’s shop, talking to Harry, while Harry _ate Weetos from a saucepan?_ Had the world gone mad? For fuck’s sake. 

“Oh! This is the artist guy?” Harry piped up unhelpfully, looking between Draco and Fabio. Draco glared at him, attempting to convey just how much he was going to enjoy killing him later. If this potential arrangement with Fabio fell through because of Harry, Draco swore he would kill Harry so slowly, so painfully that it would make Aunt Bellatrix look like a soft-hearted primary school teacher.

“Ah, Draco, you’ve been talking about me! All good things I hope.” Fabio beamed at them both, although his gaze lingered on Harry a touch too long. 

Draco narrowed his eyes fractionally. Harry had better not get any ideas… “Of course, Fabio. Of course,” Draco simpered, inwardly cringing at the tone his voice took. “I’m terribly sorry you’ve ended up in the wrong shop. My gallery is actually next door, so we can head there now and—”

“Oh.” Fabio pouted dramatically. “But I was so enjoying talking to, ah—” He gestured at Harry, who grinned broadly, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“Harry.”

“Ahh, Harry! Such a strong, handsome name. Uncomplicated.”

“Thanks, I think,” Harry said with an amused shake of his head.

“Hmm, yes, about your gallery.” Fabio turned to Draco, his hands clasped in front of his face as if in prayer, index fingers pressed to his lips. “I had a quick look on my way past, but, you know how it is. If you’ve seen one gallery, you’ve seen them all. _Ahimè_… Such a disappointment.” 

Draco’s whole body turned cold at Fabio’s casual dismissal of his life’s work. This was rapidly turning into the worst day of his life, and he’d experienced some pretty shit days.

But then Fabio continued, and everything became infinitely worse. “This place though—” He spread his arms out and gazed in awe at the cluttered walls of Harry’s shop. “_Bravo!_ It is so raw, so rugged. I love it! The atmosphere you’ve created speaks to me on a deeply emotional level. I feel it here—” He clutched a fist to his heart, “—you know? Music is such a powerful force, it creates connections, it transports you to a time, a place in the same way my works…” 

Draco tuned him out. He couldn’t listen another word—each one rending another of his hopes, his dreams, from his heart. He could feel the deal slipping from his grasp, thought perhaps it already had, but he couldn’t give up. He wasn’t prepared to throw everything away. He looked at Harry, who was nodding along and smiling politely, but from his glazed expression, he’d clearly disappeared into his head. 

“Yes, well of course, Harry and I are old friends,” Draco said, once Fabio broke for air. “Very, very dear to each other.” He wasn’t above using his connection to Harry to gain a smidgen of approval from this paisley-clad man. He frantically tried to communicate to Harry to play along using just his eyes and the slight twitch of his eyebrow.

“Really? How fortuitous,” Fabio purred, his face lighting up as he raked his eyes over them both. Draco fought the urge to cover himself with his arms, suddenly feeling very exposed.

Harry either didn’t notice the appraising look, or—and this was far more likely—was so used to being mentally undressed, he didn’t even flinch. “Oh yeah, me and him go way back. Very full history. So obviously, as soon as I saw this shop come up for sale, I jumped at the chance to set up next door to him. He was over the moon when I told him we’d be neighbours. Isn’t that right, Draco?” He sidled around the counter and punched Draco lightly in the shoulder.

“Yes, I was thrilled,” Draco said carefully. He was wary; he didn’t like how easily Harry had jumped in on his lie.

“_Che bello!_ You know, you should have consulted him for help modernising your gallery. He clearly has an eye for design.”

Draco spluttered as Harry snorted. The very idea… unconscionable.

“Alas. I must go— I have a meeting with another gallery this afternoon. Hopefully they’re more to my taste. It was lovely to meet you Harry. Draco. I hope we’ll meet again soon.” He produced a business card from somewhere about his person and pressed it into Harry’s hand, grazing a kiss across his knuckles. 

Draco scowled at the hideous display, but he knew he couldn’t let Fabio leave. As much as his feelings toward the artist were souring, he _needed_ his connections. The boost he would be able to provide to Draco’s career would be invaluable. He had to stop him, by any means possible. 

“Wait!” he cried as Fabio walked away. “Did Harry not tell you?” 

Fabio paused, eyebrows raised. “Tell me what?”

Draco swallowed dryly. He could feel Harry’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t look at him knowing what he was about to say. He just hoped Harry would play along. It was a long shot, and he knew, if their positions were reversed, he’d have no problem throwing Harry under the Knight Bus. But Harry wasn’t him. Harry liked helping people in need.

“Ah, about our plans, for our businesses. He really said nothing? Harry! How remiss of you.”

“Draco,” Harry said, stepping closer and wrapping a hand around Draco’s wrist, his fingers pressing against Draco’s pulse point. “I thought we weren’t telling people yet. What are you doing?” 

He could tell Harry was giving him an out, a way to back down without losing face and just let Fabio walk away, but he couldn’t. He _had_ to do this.

“Fabio’s not just ‘people’, Harry. He deserves to know.”

“Yes, Fabio deserves to know!” Fabio cried delightedly, clapping his hands together.

Harry sighed. He didn’t look annoyed, just exasperated. He didn’t release his hold on Draco’s wrist though. “In that case, I guess I can’t stop you.” 

Draco nodded tightly and touched his free hand to Harry’s in a silent ‘thank you.’ “Harry and I are… We were considering… We’re… We’re planning to knock down the wall between our properties and merge our businesses into one large, combined space where art and music can be celebrated and enjoyed together. Blending our styles seamlessly for the enjoyment of the public.”

He risked a glance at Harry, and found him wide-eyed, but not irate. That was a good sign. 

“_Che bello! Fantastico!_ When will all this be happening? Oh, I’m so excited! Draco, you naughty boy, I almost wrote you off!”

Draco smiled, although it was probably more of a grimace. “It’s all rather recent. I mean, we’ve not finalised any details as of yet, but…” 

“Actually,” Harry interrupted, squeezing Draco’s wrist. “Draco was going to come over to mine tonight so we can hash out some of the details.” 

“I am? I am. Yes. we’ll get a business plan written up in the next few days and can let you know more then.” _Merlin. What in fuckery was he doing?_

*

As soon as Fabio left, Harry, not unexpectedly, rounded on Draco. “What the fuck? How far were you planning on crawling up his arse? Is he really worth all this effort?”

Draco rubbed his wrist, mourning the loss of Harry’s hand. “It’s not him, per se. It’s what he could do for my gallery. If I can get in with him, it will open up so many opportunities!” At Harry’s less-than-impressed expression, Draco forced himself to calm down, to try and think rationally. “Look, don’t worry. We won’t actually have to merge our businesses.”

“No? What happens if he agrees to whatever exclusivity contract you give him? You don’t think he’s going to come here with certain expectations?”

“I… I just need him to sign. If he visits, well. We can temporarily vanish the wall, or…”

“But don’t you see? This lie affects my business too. You’re making decisions for me, without considering what I want, just like you always did! You can’t—”

The bell above the door tinkled and a group of four twenty-somethings walked in, cutting Harry off mid-rant. They made a beeline for the counter, effectively putting an end to further discussion. 

“We’re talking about this later. My place. Seven,” Harry said as the group approached.

Draco frowned. “You’re just assuming I don’t already have plans? What if I have plans?”

“Draco,” Harry said sternly, and Merlin did that tone of voice suit him well. “I’m doing this for you. You owe me, okay? So. _Do_ you have plans?”

“…No.”

“Okay, then. My place. Seven o’clock.”

“Fine.” Draco huffed. At least he’d have time to prepare a decent argument for his case.

Harry’s words remained with Draco long after he returned to his gallery. The way he’d been so quick to accuse Draco of making decisions for him. Was that really what he did? He’d only ever tried to maintain a semblance of order, to keep control of Harry’s Gryffindorish tendency to go barrelling into everything without thinking it through, but he’d never made decisions for him, had he…? Okay, maybe occasionally he had… taken charge of a situation, but it wasn’t his fault that Harry was incapable of making the right choices. If they’d done things the way Harry wanted, he’d have had them prancing around the place hand-in-hand, exposing their relationship to the whole school and running off together into the wilderness the second they graduated. Preposterous.


	7. Chapter 7

_The desk was cool against Draco’s sweat-slicked forehead, the wood smooth from years and years of wear. He tightened his grip, the edge biting into his fingers, but the feeling of Harry rutting against him, cock nestled between his arse cheeks, sliding over his hole in slow, steady strokes more than made up for the discomfort of his position. Draco hummed as Harry left a trail of kisses along his spine, his hands stroking over Draco’s back and around ribs as if he couldn't get enough of touching him. Draco felt almost feverish with need, the early summer night already heavy with a promised storm and the empty classroom stuffy despite an open window. He wanted Harry in him _now_. They had, maybe ten, fifteen minutes before people started looking for them, so Harry really needed to stop pissing about and get on with it._

_He pushed back more forcefully against Harry’s next rut, canting his hips demonstrate how ready he was, but Harry just chuckled, continuing his exploration of Draco’s skin with fingers and tongue. _

_Fuck, he was going to miss the mop-haired git. He understood why Harry was dragging things out more than usual—the Hogwarts Express was coming tomorrow to cart them off to London; their final time on the train; their last few moments of being irresponsible teens were upon them— but it didn’t make Harry’s teasing any less frustrating. _

_He wondered whether Harry was glad things between them were coming to their natural end. They hadn’t actually spoken about what would happen once they were no longer students. Draco had meant to broach the subject several times, but it was a conversation he’d wanted to have in private. The only problem was, when they were in private, there were far more enjoyable things for them to occupy their time with. He’d also neglected bringing it up because he didn’t want to hear Harry say out loud that he didn’t see a future with Draco. It was bad enough knowing in his heart that it was true. _

_Besides, he had Astoria to think about. And Harry was probably going to end up shacking up with girl-Weasley. They both had plans, neither of which involved the other. Harry knew it, Draco knew it. He should probably get out of his head and make the most of his potentially last time with Harry’s beautiful cock._

_He was going to miss this. Not Hogwarts or his friends, but this time with Harry; the five minutes they were able to sneak between classes, or a half-hour session in an empty classroom if they were lucky (like tonight)._

_“You seem distracted— Am I— am I boring you?” Harry asked breathlessly, sliding a hand around Draco’s waist and down towards his groin. He tangled his fingers in the coarse hair at the base of Draco’s prick, encircling him, and then stopping. _

_Draco grunted and twitched his hips, urging him to _keep fucking moving_ but Harry held still, pressed against Draco’s back, one hand wrapped around his chest, the other curled around his cock. _

_“You fucking tease,” Draco snapped. _

_Harry chuckled. Pressed his lips to Draco’s back, grazed his skin with his teeth, and then drew back. Draco barely had time to mourn the loss of contact, before he felt Harry rub a slick finger across his hole once, twice, then pushing inside._

_“I’m ready, you arsehole,” Draco growled. “You should know, you did most of the work.”_

_He felt rather than heard Harry’s laugh; a puff of air gusting across his back. “You mean, _all_ the work.” He slapped one of Draco’s arse cheeks, the sharp crack rattling around the empty room with astonishing volume._

_Draco gasped, pressing his forehead onto his arms as his gripped the desk with renewed vigour. Then finally, fucking _finally,_ Harry’s cock was lined against his hole, breaching the loosened muscle, and Draco exhaled a groan as he pressed slowly in, deeper and deeper until their thighs were flush. _

_“I can’t believe we leave school tomorrow,” Harry murmured against his back. He pulled almost all the way out and then thrust back in with one smooth motion. Draco bit down on his arm to keep from crying out. “I’ll miss this,” he said, so quietly Draco almost didn’t hear it._

_It definitely wasn’t the right time to bring it up but, well. Draco had missed every single other right time, and after tonight there would be no other times, right or not. “We… we don’t have to stop,” he said, voicing words he’d barely even allowed himself to think before now._

_“Yeah?” _

_Draco didn’t think he was mistaken in hearing hope in Harry’s voice and his stomach fluttered in a way that had nothing to do with the cock currently inside him. _

_“Just because we’re not at school, there’s nothing to say we can’t continue with… this.”_

_Harry paused, his fingers wrapped around Draco’s hips. “Really?” He leant forward, his chest once again plastered to Draco’s back as he nuzzled into Draco’s neck. “I… I could key you into the wards at Grimmauld. You could come over whenever you wanted,” he murmured between kisses._

_Fuck, yes, this would be so perfect. Draco canted his hips to encourage Harry to move again. His heart was filled with hope, elation. Suddenly things didn’t seem so bleak. They’d get to do this all the time, on a proper adult-sized bed; lazy afternoons curled up together, night’s spent entangled together able to make as much noise as they wanted. Merlin, but he wanted to hear Harry really let go. Could this really work? _

_But wait…_

_“What about your friends? Aren’t you living with them?”_

_“Right, yeah. Gotta keep it secret.” Some of the enthusiasm had drained from Harry’s voice, and Draco got the distinct impression he’d said the wrong thing. _

_“You could always come to the Manor. I'll get the fireplace in my private suite connected to the Floo network, then you could pop around whenever.” He hoped he didn’t sound too desperate._

_“Yeah?”_

_“Yeah. Astoria won't mind, she—”_

_At the mention of Astoria’s name, Harry stilled, his whole body tensing. “Astoria? Daph's sister? What does she have to do with anything?” He pulled out of Draco, leaving him feeling horribly empty and exposed. And cold. What the fuck?_

_Draco glanced over his shoulder, confused. Why was Harry being so weird? “She’s my betrothed. You know that.”_

_“I… I knew that she _was_, past tense—” Harry turned, breathing heavily._

_Draco dropped his head back onto his forearms._Fuck!_ He could see Harry out of the corner of his eye, scrubbing a hand over his face, his semi-erect cock jutting out from beneath his shirt. Draco wanted to kick himself. Why did he have to open his stupid mouth? How did he always manage to fuck everything up so spectacularly? _

_Harry rounded on him. “I just… I thought since… because you and I… because... Oh, for fuck's sake, Draco, you're gay! Really, really gay. My dick was just inside you! You sucked me off this morning! Why are you still marrying a girl?”_

_Sighing, he straightened up. His shirt was hanging off his shoulders, his trousers were pooled around his ankles, and his softening dick hung sadly between his legs, sticky and limp. He didn’t care what he looked like, though, because what Harry said struck a raw nerve. “You think I've forgotten? I _know_ I'm gay. But I still have to get married! Do you think I'm happy about it? No! But it's my duty as a Malfoy to produce an heir, and the last time I checked, that requires a woman.”_

_Harry stared at him, hurt and disbelief painted across his face, his hair a wild halo around his head. “So that's it? Were you even going to tell me?” His voice broke on the last word, and for a moment he looked so lost, so… dejected._

_Draco’s heart clenched and bile rose in his throat. He couldn’t lose Harry. His one good thing._

_“I wasn't keeping it a secret!” Draco cried. “Everyone knows Astoria and I are to be wed. It's not my fault you don't listen. But… but we can still continue as we have been. In secret. Astoria knows about my… tastes and she understands.”_

_“I'm not going to be your fucking mistress! Jesus.” Harry hung his head and rubbed his face. He looked upset, frustrated. “I can't believe I thought… Merlin, I'm such a fucking idiot.” He roughly tugged his trousers up and tucked himself away, then grabbed his invisibility cloak off the floor before heading to the door. “Bye Draco. It's been fun. Have a nice life.”_

_“Wait, where are you—” Draco hastily pulled up his trousers. “Stop!” _

_But Harry didn’t listen. He didn’t even turn around before throwing the cloak over his shoulders and walking out of the classroom._

* 

Draco watched the clock on the mantelpiece, tracking the second hand as it moved jerkily around the dial; proof that the thing was actually working, that time was still moving on, even though it felt like it had stopped altogether. He leant forward, his elbows on his knees to stop his legs jiggling. He hated how nervous he was—it was just a business meeting. In Harry’s flat. With alcohol (probably). Speaking of which; he got up and poured himself a small whiskey. He’d somehow managed to continue working even as Harry’s words and the memory of their final moments as… well, boyfriends, he supposed (although he’d denied it at the time), circled his mind. With hindsight, he could see now how terribly he’d treated Harry—keeping him at arms length, insisting they kept things a secret, acting like he was ashamed of what they had—just so he could continue to rebuild his reputation as paragon of pureblood ideals, and enter into a sham of a marriage with a woman who didn’t care one Sickle for him. Both Astoria and he would have been far happier if Draco had been brave enough to be honest with himself and with his mother.

For some reason, even after all that, Harry didn’t hate him. He’d spent the last few months being friendly, helpful, even flirting. If it wasn’t for all his nightly adventures, Draco would have assumed he was still interested. Maybe he was. Draco had slowly realised, as he reexamined every memory of their time together, that maybe he’d be interested back. The good times with Harry had been so good, and he couldn’t believe he’d thrown it away. But even if Harry was interested, it would be such a risk. There was no way he’d be able to gird his heart this time, and Harry was clearly in a different place than he was, casually entertaining half of London in his bed. He couldn’t do it to himself.

He made a plan. It was a loose plan, but at least it was a plan. He’d go over to Harry’s. Apologise for the Fabio thing. Then he’d owl Fabio and explain the situation as best he could—perhaps make up some rubbish about building regulations—and hope that he could salvage something and that Fabio wouldn’t bad mouth him to the entire art world. He had no doubt the man could destroy his hard earned reputation with one word in the right ear.

*

At precisely seven p.m., Draco knocked on Harry’s door; three short, sharp knocks. He tightened his grip around the bottle of wine as he heard Mortimer yapping excitedly, a muffled shout, the stomp of tired feet on wooden stairs.

Harry opened the door, looking about as weary as Draco felt, in a ratty pair of jeans and an old Harpies t-shirt, his hair loose. Draco could see his own outfit—the one he’d agonised over for hours—in his mind’s eye; shirt, tie, waistcoat with pocket watch. Merlin, he was such a pretentious twat. He felt so stuffy and over-dressed, what was he thinking? He’d dressed as if heading to a business meeting. From the way Harry’s eye grazed down his outfit, he was having similar thoughts himself. Draco’s neatly-pressed shirt collar suddenly felt too tight as he swallowed past the lump in his throat. How was Harry always able to make him doubt himself? 

Draco’s introspection was interrupted by a _thudthudthud_ and a yap as Mortimer tumbled down the stairs and darted through Harry’s legs to dance around Draco’s ankles. At least _someone_ was pleased to see him.

“Good evening,” Draco said, breaking the silence and bending down to pet Mortimer before the idiot dog did himself an injury. “Um, I wasn’t sure what exactly this meeting would entail, but I brought this.” He held out the bottle he’d brought and Harry took it from him, pursing his lips and gesturing for Draco to follow him upstairs with a muttered ‘come on then, let’s get this over with’ that made Draco’s stomach clench. He hadn’t really expected Harry to be happy to see him, but he’d hoped for a little more enthusiasm. After all, vaguely promising to merge their premises was hardly the worst thing that he’d done and Harry had been nothing but friendly ever since moving in next door. Had Draco finally pushed him too far? 

Draco faltered mid-step as the narrow staircase opened up into a spacious landing. This wasn’t what Harry’s flat was supposed to look like—he’d seen the real estate listing! He looked around in astonishment at the landing which shouldn’t exist. All doors except one were left ajar, and Draco itched to sneak a peek through the gaps as they passed to see what else was different, but Harry just lead him wordlessly through into a large, cluttered living room.

“You want a drink?” Harry asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Salazar, yes,” Draco replied unable to temper the desperation in his voice.

Harry smiled. It was only a small twitch of his lips, but it went a long way to reducing some of the tension Draco held in his shoulders. It was a sign that Harry wasn’t too annoyed, that maybe the evening had a slight chance of going in Draco’s favour. 

“Take a seat,” Harry said, disappearing back through the door. 

Draco exhaled slowly and took a proper look around, now Harry wasn’t there to distract him. It wasn’t an unpleasant or dirty space, but nothing matched, and everything appeared to be haphazardly placed with no thought having gone into layout. Everywhere he looked there was evidence of Harry’s travels—a collection of fertility statues competed with photos of assorted Weasleys on the mantelpiece, a dream catcher hung in the window, a waist-high statue of Anubis stood guard by the door, tribal masks hung from the walls—and in amongst that were posters of bands and albums, and records, _so many records_ stacked on a shelving unit that took up an entire wall. Stylistically, it was shambolic, but it suited Harry perfectly. 

The sofa, where Draco assumed he was supposed to be taking a seat, was covered with a large patterned blanket and strewn with unmatched cushions and a battered leather jacket. It looked like one of those sofas that would force a person to slouch into it, soft and unwieldy, thus making a dignified exit impossible, so he decided to remain standing. He didn’t want to be sitting down when Harry came back so he could loom over Draco.

With nothing else to do but poke around in Harry’s possessions, Draco wandered over to the shelves and ran his fingers delicately over the neat row of spines. Most of the names were completely unknown to him, but a few stuck out, tickling something in the deep recesses of his mind. Memories of trying to study in the common room while Harry and his friends chatted about music, Harry shooting him a knowing smirk every so often, a promise of what they might get up to once everyone else had gone to bed.

“I know you brought wine, but I fancied a beer, and it’s my house, so, here.”

Draco startled at Harry’s voice, guilty at being caught prying and he looked around to see Harry holding out a bottle of something called Fursty Ferret at him.

“It’s good, that one. You heard it?” Harry asked, taking a swig from his beer.

“What?” Draco frowned at the bottle in his hand. Heard what? But then he followed Harry’s nod to the record in his hand. He’d picked it up because the picture on the cover had intrigued him.

“No, can’t say I have.” He went to slide the record back onto the shelf, but Harry intercepted it.

“Let’s put it on. Not sure if it’s your cup of tea, but it’s better than awkward silence.”

The record player was in the corner, partially hidden behind the deep green foliage of a large cheese plant. Harry reached around it and put the record on—something loud and guitar-laden overlaid with a gravelly-voiced male singer who sang flat and was in dire need of a cough sweet—and then cleared a space on the sofa, indicating that Draco should join him. Despite what Harry had said, though, the music did little to mask the awkwardness of the silence between them. Draco was biding his time, waiting for Harry to say something so he could formulate an appropriate response because he still wasn’t sure how annoyed Harry was and didn’t know how to play the situation, but unfortunately Harry seemed to be doing the same thing. Was Harry mad at him? Why wasn’t he yelling? It was very suspicious. He’d clearly been a bit pissed off earlier, but now he’d given Draco a drink and was acting like they were just friends hanging out. Draco hated all the uncertainty that surrounded him whenever Harry was involved.

“Are you just going to sit there picking at the label of your bottle all night?” Harry asked eventually.

Draco looked down at his hands, aghast. How dare they betray his unease.

“You invited me here. The onus of entertainment falls on your shoulders, surely.”

Harry made an exasperated sound. “I was actually hoping for some kind of apology, you know, since you tried to take control of my business.”

“I don’t see why you’re getting so upset.” Draco rolled his eyes. This was better. He could deal with Harry being a bit stroppy. At least he knew where he stood now. “It was a promise made in the heat of the moment. I wasn’t trying to take control. That’s just how things work in business.”

“For fuck’s sake Draco. You’re so selfish! Do you ever think of anything beyond yourself and your own needs? I’ve tried—Merlin, save me, I’ve tried _so hard_—to be your friend, to move on, and you’ve been nothing but a massive shit. I don’t know why I ever thought things might be different between us this time. You still only ever think of yourself!”

“I’m selfish? You’re the one that fucked off the second things got a little difficult,” Draco snapped, Harry’s words striking him harder than he thought they would have, opening wounds he’d thought long healed. “You just left! You left me, you left your friends, you left the fucking country!”

“I…” Harry gawked at him, his mouth hanging open in a way that would have been humorous if Draco wasn’t so riled up. “Fuck you, Draco. Seriously. You dumped me. I didn’t owe you anything. I still don’t.”

“I never— I… I didn’t _dump_ you. I told you I had to get married—which you _knew_, by the way. You’re the one who got pissy about it and left mid-shag. You’re the one you didn’t even _try_ to convince me to… to…”

“To what? You didn’t exactly act like you wanted convincing of anything. You had it all worked out; keeping me on the side while you played happy families with your wife. Didn’t you ever once stop to consider what I wanted?”

“I was always thinking about what you wanted!” Draco shouted. Harry blinked at him and Draco had to close his eyes. He took a breath, willed his voice to remain steady. “If I really was as selfish as you say, I would have kept you all to myself, but that never could have happened, not back then, and not without a fight.”

“Why?”

“Because… because you’re you and I’m me. I needed to rebuild the Malfoy name, secure my legacy, make a future for myself when everyone had already written me off, and I could hardly do that as the man who… who turned the Savior queer. I mean, for fuck’s sake, you weren’t even out, Harry. You knew how people would have reacted if they found out about us, so you were just as keen to keep it quiet as I was,” he finished weakly, knowing it was a shitty excuse even as he said it. 

“So it’s all my fault?” Harry glared at him, body was stiff, his wand hand clenching at his side. He looked ready to hex someone and Draco cast a cautious glance around the room to check for signs of him losing control of his magic. He didn’t fancy being decapitated by any stray vinyl. “I wanted a proper relationship,” Harry continued, his voice quiet, trembling. “I wanted hand-holding in the corridors and cuddling in the common room, Hogsmeade dates and being able to call you my boyfriend. I wanted what everyone else got to do with their boyfriends and girlfriends, but I kept everything secret for you. I hid an important part of myself because it was _what you wanted_, hoping that if I showed you we were worth it, if I could get you to like me as much as I liked you, then maybe we’d get a chance to do things properly. And then you repaid me by telling me you wanted me to stay your dirty little secret. This is on you.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He’d wanted all those things too—so, so badly. His heart ached with all the opportunities he’d missed because he was too much of a fucking coward to take a chance. He’d been so brainwashed by his upbringing, he’d thought the only thing he could do to restore his reputation, the Malfoy reputation, was to continue with the plan his father had drilled into him since he was small. And maybe there’d been another way. If Harry had only said these things at the time… would he have done anything different? Could it have actually worked? The beer in his stomach soured and churned. He felt sick he— 

His spiralling thoughts were interrupted by a rhythmic banging, horribly familiar and wholly unexpected since the person he’d assumed was the source of that noise was currently pacing the room like a cantankerous lion.

“Is there someone here?” 

Harry snapped his head around, drawn out of his sulk. “No? What the hell, Draco. Did you listen to a word I just said?”

“There _must_ be someone here,” Draco muttered. He got up, ignoring Harry, and strode out into the hall, pushing open the door to Harry’s bedroom, fully prepared to encounter one (or more) people in a compromising position. Had Harry invited him around for some kind of sex party? Only, the instant the door swung open, he realised it wasn’t a bedroom but a kitchen. A fairly uninspired one at that. What was a kitchen doing here?

“It’s a kitchen,” Draco said redundantly.

“What are you on? What did you think you’d find?” Harry peered over Draco’s shoulder. He sounded pissed off—probably worried Draco was about to stumble into his secret sex dungeon.

Draco cocked his head to the side, listening intently. The sound was definitely coming from this room, but it was clearly devoid of copulating people so where… He zeroed in on the rattling appliance in the corner, against the wall which Draco’s bed backed on to.

“A washing machine?”

“Jesus fuck, Draco. Are you having a breakdown? Should I call someone?”

“It was a washing machine!” He laughed, the sound hysterical even to his own ears, so Circe only knew what he sounded like to Harry. Stumbling back onto the landing he thrust open the other doors: a bathroom, a study, and then, behind the final door, opposite the kitchen and as far away from the wall adjoining Draco’s flat it was possible to get, was Harry’s bedroom.

Just to make absolutely sure he wasn’t being deceived, Draco bent down and checked under the bed, but by this point, wasn’t really surprised to find it devoid of cowering sex-party goers.

“Okay. I’m Flooing Pansy,” Harry said, sounding almost frightened. “Or Blaise. Or Hermione. Fuck it. I’m Flooing everyone. You must have been drugged or something. Did you accept any food from a stranger? Any weird looking drinks?”

Draco rounded on him. Harry had gone from anger to concern so quickly that Draco was almost certain what he was about to do wouldn’t be taken the wrong way. Everything Harry had done over the last few months took on a new slant now he knew Harry wasn’t pounding someone into his mattress every other night. Draco grabbed him by the shoulders, feeling muscles tighten beneath his hands. “Shut up. Just… stop talking, you—”

He closed the distance between them and captured Harry’s lips in a kiss before he could talk himself out of it. Seconds stretched on for an age, but then he felt Harry shift, tilting his head and parting his lips and deepening the kiss. 

It was… it was like being eighteen again, but not. Gone was the rashness, the overconfidence, the need to take take take as quickly as they could because who knew when they’d get another chance. Harry’s cheeks were rougher, the stubble he now favoured scratching against Draco’s clean-shaven jaw, but his lips were still soft, and the way they fitted with Draco’s was so heart-wrenchingly familiar, it was like coming home.

They pulled apart, just a fraction, and Draco let out a shaky breath as Harry’s hands crept up his sides and wrapped around his back; a soft, uncertain embrace he hadn’t even realised he missed.

Harry leant back and looked up at him, his eyes slightly glazed, his lips shining. “You, uh, you really like washing machines then?” 

Draco stared at him, confused, until, “Oh, fuck off.” He laughed, shaking his head slightly and Harry grinned at him, amusement dancing in his eyes. Merlin, he was beautiful. Draco wanted to kiss him again, wanted to never stop kissing him now they’d done it again. 

He rubbed a hand over his mouth. He could still feel Harry’s lips on his. Could still taste him. His heart was pounding. Had that really just happened? What was he thinking? This was a terrible, _terrible_ idea. He’d let himself get caught up in the euphoria of discovering Harry wasn’t shagging around and, on top of that, had wanted him back at school, and it had sent him loopy. He took a step back, suddenly needing a little distance and swallowed down a twinge of disappointment as Harry’s arms slipped from his waist.

He wanted to steal a Time-Turner just so he could return to his eighth year and slap his eighteen-year-old self silly. Harry had wanted him, and not just for an easy lay, but in a serious, boyfriendly way, and of bloody course, Draco had fucked up. Just like he would again. And again. Like he had, probably. Right now.

He walked over to the window on the far wall which overlooked the small back garden of Harry’s shop, unlike Draco’s bedroom window which allowed him a perfect view of Diagon Alley. _What had he done?_ Harry had probably only kissed him back because he was taken by surprise, and now he was going to have to let Draco down gently, and things would go back to being awkward and strained between them, and all their friends would pick Harry’s side, since he wasn’t a sex-pest— 

“Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?” Harry asked from behind him, the proximity of his voice sending a shiver, unwarranted, down Draco’s spine. “Are you ashamed of your washing machine kink? ‘Cause, you know, each to their own and all that.”

Draco pressed a hand to his temple. He could see Harry’s reflection in the leaded glass, just over his shoulder, watching him, his hand twitching. “I don’t have a washing machine kink, you pillock. Who the fuck gets off on Muggle appliances?”

“Hey, I don’t judge. You’ll get no kink shaming from me.” Draco flinched as Harry’s hand made contact with his shoulder blade but when he didn’t pull away, Harry’s touch became less tentative. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Because I’m getting some really mixed signals from you right now and I’m still kind of mad about the whole Fabio thing so…”

Draco sighed. How could he explain he’d mistaken the bloody washing machine for Harry’s sexual exploits? He supposed he should start from the beginning.

“I’m sorry,” he said and turned around, putting his back to the window.

“Sorry?”

“For how things ended. For hating you after you walked out because I was too afraid to admit my own feelings. For holding a grudge against you all these years for something that… that wasn’t strictly your fault.” Harry raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, fine. For something that could arguably have been mostly my fault.”

“Okay… And the, the kiss? Just now? Are you sorry about that?”

“No. But I am sorry for the events leading up to it. I’ll… I’ll owl Fabio and explain everything to him.” He huffed out a small, humourless laugh. “There’s a chance he might find the whole thing hilarious.”

“I can’t believe you did that.” Harry chuckled. “Who promises to knock down walls and completely remodel just to impress some poncy twazzock?”

“You forced my hand! I’ve been waiting months for this opportunity, and then he comes along and you… You _poach_ him out from underneath me. What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Literally anything else.” He smiled fondly. “You’re so ridiculous.” 

Draco gaped, not sure if this was Harry, brushing off the fact that they’d kissed as something to be laughed at and forgotten. He thought he should feel offended, but it was hard to stay cross with someone who looked like an excitable puppy. “_You’re_ ridiculous,” he said with a pout.

He wondered what was going to happen now. Would they pretend the kiss never happened? Or would Harry want to unpack everything and _talk_ about it? He honestly wasn’t sure what would be worse.

“You’re thinking again.” Harry said. He cupped Draco’s face with one hand, making his breath catch, and smoothed his thumb delicately over Draco’s cheekbone. It was warm—Harry always ran a little hot and Draco could vividly remember winter evenings spent curled around each other as Draco tried to leach heat from him—but there were calluses that hadn’t been there before; another reminder that this Harry was different from the one he’d held in his head all these years. He sighed and couldn’t help leaning into the touch, hoping it was a good sign.

Harry moved closer and tentatively brushed their lips together, and really, that was indisputable. When they separated, Draco opened his eyes to find Harry staring at him, studying his face. 

“Is this okay?” Harry asked softly, his hand still cupping Draco’s cheek, his eyes brimming with hope, and, unless Draco was very much mistaken, no small amount of desire. 

“I… ” Draco wanted to give himself over to Harry completely. He definitely hadn’t predicted the evening going like this, but it was so easy to slip back into old patterns. And while parts of it had been good, some, obviously, didn’t bear repeating. What was this to Harry? What if all he wanted was a quick shag? Was Harry even out? As hypocritical as it was, Draco didn't want to enter into anything if they had to keep it secret. “What do you want from this?” Draco asked, afraid of what he would do if the answer was ‘just a bit of fun’.

“I just want you, Draco. I want everything you wouldn’t give me before, and I know that’s probably stupid after what happened, and hideously sappy of me, but it’s true.” 

Draco felt the sudden giddiness of relief, like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He leant in, needing to kiss, to touch, to make up for lost time, but before their lips could meet again, Harry gently pressed a hand against his chest and stepped back. Draco’s heart plummeted. Had he got it wrong?

“Hang on, I… I need to know what you want too. Is this just a one and done thing? Because if it is, if all you want is a bit of fun in private, while you ignore me during the day then… I’m not… I don’t think— No. I _know_ I wouldn’t be able to handle it. If we start something, then we’re doing it properly. I’m not going to be hidden away. I want us to walk to Carol’s hand-in-hand for our breakfast; I want pub nights with our friends where we get outrageously drunk and you feel me up in public; I want quiet nights curled up on the sofa watching Netflix and eating takeaway.”

Draco stared at him unable to believe what he was hearing. Harry’s words mirrored his own anxieties, how ridiculous that they might have gone on and on in their pattern of denial, never finding out. It felt like everything was falling into place. He settled both hands on Harry’s chest and gently guided him backwards. Harry’s confusion was rapidly replaced by raw hunger when he realised Draco’s intentions. When the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed he hurriedly scooted back to the centre. With a flick of his hand the bedroom door slammed shut. 

“Yes,” Draco growled. He crawled up the bed until he was straddling Harry’s thighs and drank in the sight of him gazing up adoringly before bending down to kiss him roughly. “Yes to everything.”

“Oh, thank god,” Harry murmured against his mouth, returning the kiss with equal fervour. 

Draco captured Harry’s lower lip between his teeth and ground his hips down, the groan escaping Harry sending a wave of heat crashing through Draco’s body.

“You’re going to have to explain this _Netflix_ to me, though.” 

“Anything. Anything you want,” Harry replied.

Draco latched onto his neck, tasting, marking, and Harry’s body went taut, one hand fisting Draco’s hair as the other slid down his side, gripping the soft mounds of his arse and forcing their hips together.

“Fuck, Draco. You’ve no idea how… how…” He tugged at Draco’s shirt, pulling it out of his waistband, and then his hand was on Draco’s skin, his touch like a firebrand. “These clothes need to fuck off. Right now.”

Draco sat back on his heels, delighting in the look of Harry’s skin, red and wet from his mouth. He already looked thoroughly ravaged and it suited him. “Couldn’t agree more.” Draco smirked then slowly pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Harry’s hands were on his thighs sliding up and down, his eyes following every movement of his fingers as Draco moved to his shirt buttons.

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry said as Draco shucked off his shirt and waistcoat, and Draco squashed down the self-conscious urge to clutch the clothes to his chest. Harry’s hands left his thighs to trail up Draco’s abdomen and over his chest, like he was trying to map every inch of Draco’s skin. He knew he looked good, but he was well aware his life of gallery visits, canapes, and complimentary champagne had softened his physique slightly from the lean form Harry must’ve remembered. “More beautiful than I remember,” he added, as if sensing Draco’s insecurities. 

“You’re only saying that because you’re trying to get into my pants,” Draco replied, ignoring the pleased flush colouring his cheeks and dropping his clothes to the floor.

“Is it working?”

“We’ll see.”

There was some shuffling as Harry stripped off his t-shirt, a much less complicated affair than Draco’s outfit, although there was a brief struggle as the neck caught on his glasses.

Draco gazed down at Harry’s chest, smoothing his hands across skin that used to be so familiar. He hadn’t changed all that much. The scars were the same, only more faded. There was a new mark on his shoulder that he traced with a finger and the tattoo he’d glimpsed, a dragon—a Hungarian Horntail, unless Draco was mistaken—spread across his shoulder, one wing tip grazing his neck, while the tail disappeared onto his back. His skin was darker too, his arms more than his torso, and spoke of a lot of time spent outdoors. Age hadn’t softened him as it had Draco, and he would have been pissed off about this if Harry wasn’t currently spread out beneath him, straining at the zipper of his jeans.

Harry smiled softly as Draco took his time exploring his skin. His hands were back on Draco’s thighs, rubbing circles with his thumbs. And then he pulled him into a kiss and it was like being eighteen again except with fewer nerves. Draco was more confident with who he was and what he wanted now. He shuffled back and glanced at Harry for permission before popping open the button on his flies and tugging down the zip with eager fingers. He lifted his hips up and helped Draco shimmy his trousers down, letting out a hiss as he squeezed his cock through his hideous neon pink boxers as Draco drank him in.

“Your turn,” Harry said with a smirk.

“As you wish.” He pitched his voice low and was pleased when it came out as a seductive purr rather than sounding like a sixty-year-old chain-smoker. He shuffled back and stepped off the bed. Harry watched with unabashed desire as he unzipped, sticking his hand in his pants and stroking himself as Draco slid his trousers and pants down his legs in one smooth motion.

“How do you want to do this?” Harry asked, sitting up.

“I want you to top but I want to see you,” Draco replied, and was rewarded by one of Harry’s blinding smiles. He climbed onto the bed and lay back, gasping at the sensation of Harry’s cleaning charm as he crawled between Draco’s legs. “Did you…?”

Harry smirked and waggled his fingers. “I may have picked up a few tricks while was away. That was one and this—” he held his palm out flat, and muttered a familiar spell. Lubricant materialised on his upturned palm, growing from a small drop into a large glob. “This is the other.” He grinned and Draco nudged him with his knee.

“Show off.”

“Tell me you aren’t stupidly turned on right now,” Harry said, running a single, wet finger down Draco’s shaft, over his balls and perineum, to find the tight whorl on muscle he used to be so intimately familiar with. 

“I’m not turned—” Draco gasped as Harry slipped one slick finger inside, bent over and took him into his mouth, slowly working him open with more care than Draco had experienced in a long while.

Draco squirmed on the bed, his eyes clenched shut, breath growing heavier and heavier. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to press down onto Harry’s fingers or up into his mouth. It was torturous. Just enough to keep him on edge, but not quite… enough… to—

“For Christ’s sake, Potter. Fuck me. Fuck me like you used to.”

“Yes.” He sat back and Draco barely had any time to mourn the loss of his mouth and fingers when he felt the head of Harry’s cock press against the tight muscle. He eased his way in, slowly, carefully, pausing every time Draco made a sound. It was infuriating. 

“Come here, you shit, I’m not going to break,” Draco said, hooking a hand behind Harry’s head and crashing their mouths together. That was, evidently, all the encouragement Harry needed. He thrust the rest of the way in, a deep groan rumbling out of him as his hips met Draco’s arse.

He was relentless, the bed frame slamming into the wall over and over. Draco would have laughed if he had the capacity. All those weeks spent thinking random strangers were right here where he was, when Harry'd been just as alone the whole time. What a waste. They could've been doing this. All the familiarity of an old lover but with the comfort and finesse of grown men, well versed in the art. 

And Harry was definitely a grown man now. Strong and sure, and with stamina he definitely hadn't had in school. He was giving his all and his all was an absolute pounding. The pleasure built and Draco stopped being able to think about school and how they'd changed and how much of an idiot he'd been all this time. He stopped being able to think at all, with Harry whispering in his ear, a litany of filth that made his toes curl and his belly flutter. His hips flexed of their own accord and he gasped for breath, eyes squeezed tight.

Draco’s orgasm tore through him, taking him completely unawares as Harry thrust into him, one hand wrapped around Draco’s cock, the other gripping the pillow beside Draco’s head. He was quick to follow Draco over the edge, Draco’s name falling from his lips as his hips juddered, eyes closed, head dropped forwards. 

"Jesus Christ," he murmured into Draco's collarbone. "That was..." He drew back slowly, sliding out with a hiss.

Draco's own hips twitched, oversensitive, muscles still fluttering in his afterglow. "Yes, it was," he agreed, his breath catching as Harry flicked a wandless _Scourfigy_ over the both of them.

He flopped down on his back with a sigh, and Draco wondered if this was the moment where everything would go wrong or if it was just the beginning of them putting things right again. He looked over at Harry, still breathing hard, his eyes closed, a sheen of sweat making his skin shine. Draco could see the effort he'd gone to, to make it good, and he felt inexplicably… Lucky. Lucky Harry was a stubborn bastard and refused to let Draco push him away or ignore him. Lucky his own stupidity hadn't outlasted his affection. Lucky neither of them were afraid of who they were anymore. 

He let his hand drop to the bed, seeking out Harry's, and his heart swelled as he felt warm fingers wrap around his own. Felt the mattress shift and a weight come to rest against his side.

“I thought I’d never get over losing you,” Harry murmured into Draco’s neck.

“I don’t think I ever did.”

He felt Harry shift on the bed, felt Harry’s eyes on his face. “Me too,” he said, barely above a whisper.

*

Mortie grunted and nuzzled further into the small gap between them. As soon as Harry had opened the bedroom door, Mortie had darted in to claim a spot, clearly affronted that he’d been left out for so long. Now, they were cleaned up, sat in bed, and drinking tea. It was horrendously domestic, and Draco loved it.

“I can’t believe you thought my washing machine was me,” Harry said, laughing again. He’d not stopped giggling since he’d finally got the truth out of Draco.

“How was I to know you’d remodelled your flat? It was a perfectly reasonable assumption based on the available evidence.”

“But you seriously thought I was shagging my way through London?”

“Bugger off.”

“I mean, obviously I’m not a monk, but come on. I suppose I’m flattered you think I’m capable of having such a rampant sex life— but when was I supposed be meeting all these people I was apparently able to seduce?”

“Look, I never said it made sense.” Draco grumbled. “And I didn’t watch you the whole time. I’ve no idea what you get up to in that shop.”

“Honestly, it’s mostly chatting to old, bearded men with beer guts about records and how ‘they don’t make music like they used to’ while trying to push a few newer albums onto them. It’s surprisingly time consuming. And before you say anything, none of them are my type, okay?”

“You’ve completely spoiled the vision I had of you seducing entire indie bands with nothing but a sleeveless t-shirt and an original pressing of _Wonderwall_ in your arsenal,” Draco teased. “Very disappointing.”

“Well, I hope you’re not disappointed by the reality of my bedroom. Did we rattle the walls enough to your liking?”

“No,” Draco said, and watched Harry’s gaze flick up in concern. He smirked. “We’re definitely going to have to try again.”

*

It had taken months for them to agree on how best to merge their businesses, but in the end they decided that if they were going to do it, then they’d do it properly. ‘Go big or go home’ Harry had said. Construction had only started the week before but already it was taking shape. Their friends had been concerned about things moving to fast, but as far as Draco was concerned, they’d already wasted the past fifteen years because he’d been too afraid to take chances, and he refused to waste any more time.

Mortie scampered ahead of them down Diagon Alley, still mostly quiet at this hour. They’d ordered to take away this morning, both of them quietly nibbling on apple turnovers as they walked, hand in hand, back home. A tray of coffees floated after them, for the crew already gathered. By the time they caught up, Mortie was yapping at Blaise’s heels as their friend carefully walked Hephaestus out the front door. He was finally retiring from life as a shop assistant-slash-massive pain in Draco’s arse, and moving to Hogwarts. Neville had offered him wall space in the newly renovated art classroom, and Hephaestus had jumped at the opportunity to ‘mould and inspire the minds of the next generation of artists.’ It would be strange not having him around after so long, but as Neville had also roped Draco into agreeing to give a few guest lectures to the art students, he’d still see him every now and then. It would be more than enough.

Harry squeezed his hand and Draco looked around, his breath momentarily taken by the joy in Harry’s smile. 

“It looks good, doesn’t it? I can’t wait for the grand opening.”

“Is it strictly necessary?” Draco asked for the third time in as many weeks, licking sugar off his lip. “The whole thing seems a little gauche to me. Are you certain I can’t convince you to scale it back to a sophisticated soiree for a select few people?”

“Absolutely positive. We’re going all out—fireworks, booze, sausage rolls, pineapple and cheese on sticks—and it’s gonna be for everyone.”

Draco groaned and took another bite of his breakfast.

“Fine,” he said as he swallowed. “But if anyone so much as looks askance at one of my pieces of art, I reserve the right to hex their arse onto their face.”

“Of course, dear.”

Harry laughed and they continued towards their new combined gallery and record shop. As soon as it was open, they would start hosting workshops during the day and provide a space for gigs during the evening. It was a terrifying prospect, but Draco couldn’t be more excited. They’d almost finished the remodel, just this weekend and they should be good to go.

All that was left was knocking the wall through upstairs to combine their flats, making themselves a proper home, one with space for friends and family. 

And perhaps moving that sodding washing machine.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [H/D Tropes Exchange Fest 2019,](http://www.hdtropes.tumblr.com) posting August & September 2019! Leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed it!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/coriesocks) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/coriesocks) @coriesocks <3


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